


you've got stars, they're in your eyes

by kblaze2



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Titanic (1997)
Genre: Light Smut, M/M, Period Typical Homophobia, Sad, Slightly - Freeform, but like vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:37:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5695072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kblaze2/pseuds/kblaze2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the titanic!au nobody asked for. seriously, nobody asked.</p><p>in which this is basically the same storyline as the movie titanic: bucky the rich socialite, non-tiny steve the street artist, natasha bucky’s betrothed (but actually nice), and sam steve’s best friend.</p><p>it's not completely sad though, there are lots of happy moments, but read at your own discretion.</p><p>title from what a feeling by one direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've got stars, they're in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [you've got stars, they're in your eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247526) by [omegalomaniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omegalomaniac/pseuds/omegalomaniac)



> jesus, i've never done so much research for anything in my life. not even my semester research paper i just turned in. i am trash.
> 
> and i honestly have no idea why i wrote this i was watching titanic and then decide to cause myself more pain and began this immediately after.
> 
> and the bucky & nat relationship is strong in here in that they have one but it is not romantic
> 
> and im stressing the read this at your own discretion part, because there are definitely some scenes that could be triggering (i.e. death, loss, vague internal and external homophobia, panic attacks, ptsd) but those scenes don't happen until the end of the story.
> 
> and thank you to my wonderful beta bean [meetah12](http://archiveofourown.org/users/meetah12/pseuds/meetah12) for being as masochistic as i am and reading this with me and helping me when i had troubles progressing and even for your awful jokes and terrible puns and even when u tried to make everything sexual. love ya tho :))

****

**WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10TH, 1912**

** Bucky **

Bucky couldn’t give a damn about this supposed "Ship of Dreams." But, seeing as it was his only way back to New York, he needed to. He enjoyed London, he did. It — well, enjoy isn’t really the word he should be using. He can’t really enjoy the city in its full capacity from the confines of his quarters, or waistcoat. The grip of his mother's hand. London wasn’t home like New York.

"James! The car is waiting," she calls, rapping her knuckles against his door.

Bucky groans internally. He _hated_ being called James, and his mother very well knew it. Not that she cared, of course. It’s not like Bucky Barnes was a name that would attract wives or money. No, see, he had met Natasha at an auctioning event — basically just a pompous gathering to see who had the most money to spend under the guise of charity. Their parents had secured their arrangement before they even met, pushing Natasha onto Bucky’s arm seconds after introductions. That was months ago, and here they are, heading back to America for the wedding — the merger of the decade, apparently. Again, Bucky couldn’t care less. But still, it hurt the way his mother crumbled when she took off her corset, holding her head in her hands and crying softly when she thought she was alone. Bucky knew she missed his father more than the money and could probably do without it if he was still here, but she still cried over both. The insurance money could only go so far before they had to sell old possessions, let some staff go. She was too accustomed to this life to be able to let it go, and Bucky honestly thinks she tries so hard to hold on just for the memory of his father. He has no idea how to go about that, how to bring it up, just to let her know that she doesn’t have to. Doesn’t have to hurt like this. Doesn’t have to hide behind her long gloves and a parasol. But Bucky doesn’t know where to start; it’s not his place.

"James?" Natasha calls softly. "Bucky, please, we’re leaving." She wriggles the door handle to find it unlocked and Bucky sighs. She chuckles when she sees him slumped on the bed, closing the door and coming to sit next to him. "I thought you couldn’t wait to get out of London," she says, resting a hand on his shoulder, leaning into him.

He grabs that hand and squeezes. Despite their arrangement, Natasha is one of the only things in Bucky’s life that keeps him sane. He wishes he could love her in the way their parents want. "Not if it means spending two weeks on a boat with _them_."

"Ship," Nat teases gently, nudging his arm. "Come on, it won’t be so bad. I hear it has over five decks." She searches Bucky’s face for a reaction, but gets nothing. She sighs. "Bucky." Grabbing his chin, she turns his face to look at her and sees the red around his eyes. He hasn’t explicitly told her, but she’s smart; she’s probably figured it out. Had to have noticed in the way he was reluctant to touch her, the way his lips are tight when they kiss, the way he stares at other men. But she doesn’t call attention to it, doesn’t out him. Bucky is grateful for Natasha, in all respects honestly. Even if the circumstances are what they are.

"Going back, it means —" he stops and clears his throat. Sniffles.

"The wedding, yes," Nat finishes for him. She looks down, a small but contrite smile on her face. "If not for me, then for your mother?" she says more than asks, kissing his cheek lightly. "I’m going to tell them you’re ready." And then she’s up off the bed, gone. Bucky knows he has to go now. Natasha always has the last word.

He huffs out a load of air, but it does nothing to remove the weight from his chest. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve before cuffing it back, throwing on his coat. He grabs his hat, and leaves London behind.

****

** Steve **

Steve hates to say it, but he completely regrets letting Sam convince him to come to Europe. Penniless as he was in America, the situation wasn’t any better in another continent, another economy. Sure, his drawings did alright, and whatever jobs Sam managed to find got them by, but it was honestly one of the more stupid decisions of his life. That’s why when he heard about _Titanic_ , he scrapped up every coin he could find, sat out on the streets until dawn, drawing for whoever wanted. Sam, of course, wasn’t staying behind without him, and found himself with three jobs — even that was barely enough for two Third Class tickets. But. They did it. And Steve gets to go home. Visit his mother’s grave. Smell Brooklyn again. London was no Brooklyn.

Breathing in the salty air of the ocean surrounding them relaxes something in Steve’s chest. He grips the railing with one hand and Sam’s shoulder with the other as they sail, smiling broadly at his friend. Sam claps him on the back, and takes the chance to snap his suspenders against him.

"That’s for taking me away from the Parisian girls," he teases and Steve rolls his eyes, smiling still.

"There’s plenty of dames back home, Sam. Promise," Steve says, and bends over the railing, for no reason other than he wants to. He lets the wind whip against his hair, billowing his shirt, stinging his eyes. It’s the best he’s felt in a long time.

"If you fall in I’m not saving your dumb ass," Sam warns, and Steve guffaws with laughter, coming back up to wrap his arm around his friend’s shoulders.

"Yes, you would." Because they both know it’s true. "Come on, I’m starved."

~~

Steve says goodnight to Sam and Clint — their roommate for the trip — heading up deck with his sketchpad and charcoal in hand. He goes as far as he can without trespassing in First Class, noting the watchful eyes of the men in the Crow’s nest. He doesn’t figure there’s much they can do to him from way up there, but Steve shrugs. He knows his place; he’s used to it.

The wind howls around him and the chill in the air is unavoidable, the cold April air mixing with the ocean below. He doesn’t mind, though. Reminds him of the times in between fall and winter in Brooklyn, back when he would sniffle incessantly and stay holed up by the fire. But he hasn’t been sick in a long time, and takes the time to enjoy the goose bumps that rise on his skin.

There’s a bench on the rear deck that Steve sits on, propping his feet up. He gazes at the stars above, eyes sweeping over the constellations, the vast darkness above and below. His eyes scan the railings of the ship, the way the moonlight catches and glares. It’s silent save for the waves, and Steve takes a moment to bask in it all. He thinks about the times at home when he would go to the Park and look at the stars; that time Sharon from school came with him, laced her fingers with his and pressed herself against him. He remembers startling, realizing what she wanted, what he couldn’t give. When she kissed him he tried, he really did, but it wasn’t enough. She thought there was someone else, disconnected herself from him with tears in her eyes. He walked her home anyways, and then dry heaved as soon as he turned the corner of her block. At times, he hated himself. Hated what he was. Tried too hard to not be this. Tried again with Sharon a couple of months later, only to perform miserably. Sharon didn’t play games, and left his life soon after that. He tried with others, but it wasn’t — it wasn’t it. Sam held him when he cried. Promised to never tell a soul.

Steve shudders when a different kind of chill goes down his spine. He shakes his head and begins to draw. Sketches the pattern of the deck, the bend of the railings as they give way to different levels, the rigid pole leading to the Crow’s nest, two shadows keeping watch. He shades the night sky above, twinkling sparks dotting the paper, wind whistling through the page. He draws his feet on the bench, resting still, his shoes falling apart at the edges. He draws Sam — just because he can do it from memory — laughing with the sun shining behind him, a surge of people looking over the edge of the ship with him. He draws his mother, as best as he can. Tries to capture every feature on her face before they went slack. And he draws her grave, next to his father’s, vines entangling their stones, grass curling around them. He draws until it’s too cold to stand it anymore, closes his sketchbook and breathes in the air one last time before heading down to G Deck where his bed is. Far below the stars.

 

**THURSDAY, APRIL 11TH, 1912**

** Bucky **

Dinner the next night isn’t any better than all the other dinners with this family, but that’s no surprise. Even worse though, is the unending clamor of privilege and rings of smoke. Trapped in a room not nearly big enough for all of these egos, Bucky feels like he’s suffocating. Natasha’s hand on his arm both helps and doesn’t. While she is the only one he can stand in this whole room, she only reminds him of everything on his shoulders, every part of his life that’s seemingly inescapable. He hasn’t decided if he should tell her he plans to leave when the boat docks, find some way to get lost in the New York crowd. He doesn’t imagine it would be hard. He does have doubts of himself actually going through with it, however. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t tell Natasha. He thinks she’d go, if he did. Or she would let him leave, let him be. He can trust her.

The caviar is disgusting, as always, but he eats it with a smile nonetheless. He considers choking, or feigning ill, anything to remove himself from the echoes of the room that pound in his head. He almost drops his fork at one point, when they talk about the wedding; his chest is so tight, hands shaking. Natasha squeezes his hand the whole main course, and his mother eyes them. He can see she wants to correct their positions — that’s not the correct posture for the table, young lady — but her eyes soften and she turns her head back to Peggy’s story. If only she knew this wasn’t out of young love, rather out of keeping Bucky from falling apart right there. No matter how many times his flute is refilled with champagne, his throat is still dry and he’s nowhere near numb enough to be handling this conversation.

When dinner’s over, Nat — bless her — asks him to walk her back to their room. He bids their dinner party goodnight and exits the hall, immediately basking in the still silence of the foyer. He can breathe again.

"I’m sorry," he says to Nat, burying his face in her shoulder.

She only runs her hand over his head, pressing her lips lightly to his ear. Then she pulls away, smiling that First Class smile at him. "Come on, Darling. I’m absolutely exhausted," and she tugs on his fingers, sliding her hand up to his elbow as they begin to ascend the staircase.

When they’re back in the room, behind closed doors, he rips off his tie and jacket, running a heavy hand through his hair. "Did you believe a thing Martin was saying? As if he actually did that with that many prostitutes," Bucky laughs — sometimes these tales are worth listening to, he loves spotting out the bullshit. When he looks back at Natasha, her face is solemn. She’s sitting at the vanity, removing her earrings, looking at Bucky in the reflection. He drops his smile.

"You’re leaving," she says simply. There’s no question to it.

He doesn’t attempt to deny it. Just sighs and walks over to her, hands on her shoulders. "You’re more than welcome to join me."

The smile she gives is rigid. "James, please." She grabs a hold of her hair and pulls it to the side, and Bucky undoes the clasp on her ridiculously expensive necklace. And ostentatious. And heavy. He puts it in the compartment in the box for her, kneeling down next to her. She looks over at him, and he can see the lines around her eyes, etching all across her face.

"You’re not going to, though," he says, and she shakes her head.

"Bucky, I — as much as I would love to, I can’t. And you shouldn’t," she adds sternly, and Bucky whips his head up. "I’m not going to stop you," she amends, "but just think about the position you put me in by leaving a week before the wedding."

Bucky swallows. He — honestly, he hadn’t given it much thought. He just assumed she’d be tagging along. He knows she would enjoy the city, could tell from how much she liked London. But. "Then come with me." His voice is strained and cracked, exhaustion from the day catching up with him, the thought of not having Natasha there — leaving her here with them — making him uneasy.

She shakes her head softly, running a hand through his hair again. She leans down and kisses him, small and warm, lips lingering for a moment before she pulls back, resting her forehead on his. "You need to be on your own, and I am not what you want."

"But," he grabs her arm, clutches. "I want you with me. You don’t have to stay here with them. I —"

She rests a polished finger on his lips. "I’ll be fine." Her hand slides to his cheek. "You take care of yourself, James. Don’t worry about me."

He rests for a moment against her hand. He — "Have I ever told you you’re the best?" He smiles brightly, lips curving against her fingers.

She mirrors his grin. "No, but now’s a good a time as any," she teases.

He laughs, and leans up to kiss her forehead. "I love you," he says.

"I don’t doubt it," she replies, but there’s something in her voice, something stale, brittle, hidden under the inflection of amusement. But there’s no chance to explore it before she’s up and gone again, preparing for bed.

~~

Bucky slips on a coat and heads out to the Boat Deck, walking its entirety until he’s down on the Poop Deck, and continues until he’s at the stern. He grips the railing, letting the wind whip through his hair, loosening the gel there. The cold stings his eyes a bit, but he looks onward anyways. He never has much time to admire the view of things, the world. He’s always been whisked from this car to this party to that dinner to that gala. Barely has time to breathe. This — while it’s just blackness and stars — is one of the more wonderful things he’s seen in his life. And he doesn’t know what to do with that. He steps up onto the railings, holding on to the rigging and letting the wind sway his body with its force, listens to the water crash below, the propellers spinning. He doesn’t really hear the footsteps, but sees the pale hands wrap around the railing next to him.

"Just beautiful, ain’t it?" There's the hint of something familiar in the voice, and it's a little deeper than expected, but when Bucky glances over and sees the large frame it emerged from, he understands. And also does his best to not trip as he hops down back onto the deck. The man is a fair few inches taller than him, definitely broader than him, more built. Bucky is suddenly very thankful for the on-board gymnasium.

He clears his throat and nods. "Yes, it is."

"The way the light shines off the water, I mean, you can see the waves, the flow. And then the stars up there — I've never seen a night sky so clear," the man rambles, a smile etching his face. He turns and looks at Bucky, sparkling glint in his eye, dimple in his left cheek. He stares at Bucky a moment too long — not that Bucky minds — before turning back to the ocean, gesturing wide. "Of course, nothing beats looking up through the smog and lights of the New York skyline," he says and that's it. That's what Bucky heard in his voice. He would almost say home, but.

"Brooklyn?" he asks on a whim, resting an elbow on the railing.

The smile he gets in return would be blinding, if Bucky were weaker. It’s a close thing, though. "Yeah. Montague. You from there?"

And, well. Bucky would like to answer that question honestly. But anything he says will give him away, if his clothes already haven’t. He tries for vague. "Yeah, from around."

The man eyes him. Blue and crisp like the ocean under the high noon sun and clear sky. A sly smile is on his lips. "You’re from Manhattan, aren’t you?" Bucky tries to keep his face blank, but something must slip because the blond laughs brightly. "I know that accent anywhere, not to mention those pressed pants and jacket you’re wearing."

Bucky smiles tightly, looking between his own ensemble and the man's face, “Guilty as charged. I try not to be as stuck up as those assholes, though,” he promises.

"I know, you're talking to me willingly, something I'd never get from a walk along Fifth," he jokes, knocking his shoulder lightly against Bucky's.

"Who said I _wanted_ to be talking to you right now?" Bucky teases, that charm of his father's he knows is shining through.

"Jerk," the blond laughs, still. Considers Bucky a moment then sticks out his hand. "'M Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers."

Bucky takes his hand, palm sliding effortlessly in his. "James Buchanan Barnes," he says in a ridiculously posh voice, one he can mimic without even thinking about it — he's surrounded by it everyday — making Steve chuckle. He drops his hand. "But, call me Bucky. Please."

"Alright, Bucky Please. Good to meet ya," Steve replies, a smug grin on his face.

"Punk." Bucky shakes his head and looks back at the night sky.

"So, ya headed back to New York?" Steve asks, hand inches from Bucky's on the railing. Even in the cold midnight air, Bucky can feel the body heat Steve gives off. The way it wraps around his shoulders like a blanket.

Bucky releases a sigh. "Well, uh —"

"James."

They both turn around to see Natasha standing there, arms crossed in the folds of her nightgown and robe. A hint of a smile is in her eyes, but it's hidden by the firm set of her face, stance of her hips.

"Dear," he grits out. Knuckles white as the railing. He feels Steve stiffen beside him.

"Your mother is looking for you," she says simply. And he knows he should be thankful Nat is out here instead of his mother. "Come back to bed." The now goes unsaid, and Bucky finds his feet shuffling towards her before he even thinks about it. She gives him a look, eyes flitting back to Steve. And oh, right.

He turns back to Steve, who is standing with a straighter posture than before, arms clasped behind his back. Bucky is sucked back into his place before he can control it. "Goodnight, Steven. It was a pleasure." He mentally curses himself when Steve’s face flickers into something — something sad. But it’s fleeting, before he’s smiling and saluting Bucky.

"Goodnight, James," he says, accent gone. And then his back is to Bucky, broad and tight against his cotton shirt as he looks over the ocean again.

Bucky leaves with Natasha at his side, and promptly finds a way to change the subject.

"Lovely night, isn’t it? Oh, I hope the quartet plays again tomorrow night. Did you think they were good? I thought their rendition of 'Orpheus’ was wonderful." He’s basically dragging Natasha now, trying to get back to the room quickly so he can peel away.

But, Natasha doesn’t miss a thing. Nor does she lose. "Bucky." And she’s stopped walking, yanking Bucky back with her. She taps her foot and smiles knowingly at him. "Steven?"

Bucky turns his head away. "We really shouldn’t keep Mother waiting," he tries, to no avail. Obviously.

Nat is basically laughing now. "Who was that, hmm?" She raises her eyebrows. Bucky tries to run, really, as childish as it is. He does. But Nat isn’t having it. "Bucky, please."

"I’m not in the mood for games, Nat. He just came up next to me, and we chatted for five minutes, that’s it. Let’s go, please." He tugs on her arm again and she fully starts laughing now.

"You’re adorable when you think you’re hiding something. I know you too well, James." She walks along with him anyways, though.

"Unfortunately, that is true," he grumbles. When they get back to the B Deck, he stops. "Mother wasn’t actually looking for me, was she?"

Nat smiles. "No, but she would have been. You should be so lucky I care so much." Her smile is devious, and Bucky squeezes her hand, his father’s smile on his lips. He presses a kiss to her forehead and leads her inside their quarters. They’re in bed moments before their parents return, wondering how their night went. The conversation is simple, dry and lacking and full of obligation. They’re gone soon enough, though, and Bucky falls asleep with Natasha in his arms and blue eyes on his mind.

 

**FRIDAY, APRIL 12TH, 1912**

** Steve **

Steve is at a loss for words. While he knows he’s Third Class — one sweep of the eyes could tell you that — he wasn’t expecting to be so abruptly degraded like that. Especially after feeling so… not. But, he supposes the First Class has more expectations to uphold, scripts to fulfill. He can’t exactly blame Bucky for referring to him as Steven, formal goodbye soon after. He can understand, he guesses. But. He wants to talk with him again, despite everything. He did enjoy the conversation they were having, the light in his eyes and smirk on his face. Steve thinks that’s the real Bucky, who he is when he can be. Suddenly, he feels sorry for Bucky. Freedom is worth more than riches, and it seems he only has a taste of one. Steve would gladly trade fortune for freedom — not that he has any fortune to trade, that is. He wonders what a life like that must be like.

Bucky seemed about his age, and is already married — or at least engaged. He noticed the ring, and the dame was something he couldn’t pretend wasn’t there even if he tried. Striking in her posture and beauty. Steve can appreciate it when he sees it, regardless of his own preferences. Bucky is a lucky fellow. He assumes the marriage is some sort of arrangement, as most are, given the tightness of their mouths as they spoke, but he couldn’t deny the comfortable way they leaned into each other as they walked away — not that Steve sneaked a glance, or anything. But if he did, and noticed the swish of Bucky’s hips or the curve of his back, well. That’s just something that happened to stay on his mind all night.

"Buddy," Clint is saying, waving his hand in front of Steve’s face. Steve startles, and looks up at him. "You alright? You’ve been staring at the ceiling for three hours."

"It was _not_ three hours. I just woke up," Steve says indignantly, sitting up.

"But you admit you were staring?" Clint grins and Steve shoves him, climbing out of bed.

"Hope you’re not harassing my friend over there, Barton," Sam calls from where he’s pulling on his pants and clipping his suspenders. Clint holds hands up in attrition, but still grins like he’s struck oil.

"I’m just saying, I only got that look in my eye when I seen a gorgeous dame," Clint eyes him, before going back to his bunk.

Steve’s heart beats quick in his chest, so loud he’s afraid Clint can hear, and he shares a look with Sam. Sam, whose eyes bring him back, hold him here, keep him safe — and also definitely promise a talk for later, that unmistakable glint in his eye, like whenever Steve came back to wherever they were staying, cheeks flushed shirt rumpled and suspenders cockeyed. Steve looks away — it’s honestly _nothing_. Even if he doesn’t want it to be.

And even if he leaves his friends behind after breakfast to go sidle around the Poop Deck, lingering at the stern, it’s still _nothing_.

He doesn’t end up waiting long, though. He can see Bucky walking smoothly across the deck towards the benches where Steve currently sits. Steve suddenly feels obligated to stand in greeting, and is surprised when Bucky throws his arms around him. He barely has the chance to reciprocate before he lets go.

"I am so sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to — I have to — my — Natasha was just —"

Steve laughs and cuts him off. "It’s alright, Buck, really. I understand. Really," he adds when Bucky opens his mouth again.

He sees Bucky visibly relax, and slump into the bench. He rubs his hands down his face. "God, _why_ did I call you Steven? That was — If anything, I apologize for that."

Steve laughs lightly and settles down beside him. "I think I can forgive you." Bucky smiles at him and Steve’s chest feels warm. And then he remembers. "So, Natasha? That your wife?"

He sees the veins in Bucky’s neck pop, his jaw tighten. "Nah, will be though," he says, waving around his left hand. "About a week after we dock. Mother’s invited the whole world, it seems." He shakes his head, bitter.

"Well, Natasha seems wonderful." He searches Bucky’s face, and sees a solemn stare replaced by a fond smile.

"Yeah, Nat’s great. But…" he stops, clearing his throat. He turns to Steve with a thousand watt smile — Steve sees right through it. "But enough about me. What about you? Anyone special in your life?" He slaps Steve’s shoulder, turning his body inward on the bench.

Steve doesn’t press it any further, if Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it he doesn’t have to. But he hopes, wishes — wants to make sure he’s okay. The look on his face did not convey that. But, he lets it slide. "Uh," he coughs. "Nope. Just me, Sam, and my art. Sam’s my best friend," he says when Bucky quirks an eyebrow.

"Ah, you draw?" he asks, leaning in, interest peaked.

"Yeah," Steve blushes, although the reason why is beyond him. "I, uh, draw, sell, whichever, for money. It’s how I got my ticket on here. That, and Sam’s multiple salaries." He’s nothing if not modest, and Sam worked far harder than he did. Definitely.

There’s something in Bucky’s eyes Steve can’t place, and then his hand is in Steve’s tugging him up off the bench.

"Um, where are we going?" Steve asks, tripping a little with the momentum.

"Down to your room, or wherever you keep those drawings of yours," Bucky explains like it was obvious, hand warm in Steve’s as he drags him towards the stairs. "I have to see them, since you’re such a big _artiste_." His laugh is bright and Steve catches up to his side as they walk. Now, they’re really just holding hands, since they’re moving at the same pace, and Steve knows he should drop his hand, can lead just fine without the touch, but. But he doesn’t.

Even when he says, "Well, we don’t have to go anywhere, they’re right here," and reaches behind himself to pull his sketchpad from where it sits tucked in his pants. It’s become a habit of his.

Bucky barely pauses as he says, "Excellent!" throwing his other arm out wide. Then they’re walking again. "But let’s go some place quieter, anyhow."

Steve tries not to flush and lets Bucky lead him to one of the many Parlor Rooms on board.

~~

Watching Bucky’s eyes scan over his drawings is one of the more nerve-wracking moments of Steve’s life. His stare is intense, and he’s practically bent in half over the table, poring over the lines.

They’re in one of the lower lounges, and Steve, quite frankly, doesn’t understand how it’s deserted, save for five more people on the other side. Bucky tugged him into this dark corner immediately upon arrival, and Steve is thankful for the shadows that hide the red in his cheeks. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t so pale.

Every now and then, Bucky will lean in, shoulder pressing against his, tan finger pointing at some landscape, or re-creation of someone, asking questions — When did you do this? Where is this? Who is this? Is this Sam? Is this your apartment? When did you live in Paris?! What do you mean this only took you five minutes?!— or complimenting his work — Holy shit, this is so good. I love this. There’s no way you drew this. That’s so interesting. — or Steve’s personal favorite:

" _God_ ," Bucky breathes out, overlooking a canvas of July Fourth from Steve's Brooklyn apartment. Sam had gotten him colored pencils for his birthday — something he _knows_ cost Sam a fortune, but always shuts Steve down when he brings it up. He has a pang of nostalgia; he hadn’t wanted to waste them, only use them for special occasions, and had left him under the floorboards in his room back in New York. He’ll probably draw this ship when he gets back. When he looks up at Bucky — the glee and warmth in his eyes, shoulder still pressed with his — he decides, yes, he will.

"This has got to be my favorite piece of art ever," Bucky says, looking at Steve in awe. Which makes him blush again.

"Please, it’s hardly a doodle," Steve says, trying to take the book away from him, but Bucky only slaps his hand.

"Steve." Bucky turns to him and puts his hands on either shoulder. His stare is intense, blue eyes ripping through Steve. "Steve, this is art, okay? Real, raw talent. I — can you draw something for me?"

And, Steve — what? "Come again?" Steve asks, shaking his head out.

Bucky squeezes his shoulders. "You gotta draw me something. After seeing these, I need one. Please."

"You really want me to draw ya something?" Steve doesn’t understand why he’s so incredulous.

"Yes, you punk," Bucky laughs, clapping his shoulders again. "I’d have to be out of my damn mind not to want something of yours."

And Steve wants to argue that it’s the other way around, really. But, he doesn’t. Just melts in the large smile Bucky is giving him and nods his head. "Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ll get back to you with that."

"Promise?" Bucky asks, holding his hand up for Steve to take. Except when he does, he laces their fingers together and squeezes.

Steve gulps hard. "Promise. And I never break my promises."

"Good." Bucky drops his hand then, going back to looking through Steve’s work, adding in comments or stories of things they remind him of. Steve thinks Bucky reminds him of a lot more than he had signed on for, not that he signed on for this when he boarded _RMS Titanic_ , but. It’s a blessing, he thinks. He smiles and leans in close to Bucky as he speaks.

 

** Bucky **

Spending the day with Steve was not in Bucky’s plans. Well, not his _conscious_ plans. He honestly had only wanted to apologize for his behavior last night, but. Well.

Not that he’s complaining, or anything. Steve is great company. Hell, a plant would be better company than his family. But he can’t hold a conversation with a plant like he can Steve, not that he’s tested that theory out.

Steve is interesting. Steve is bright and funny and compelling. Steve is talented and modest. Steve is kind. Steve is — Steve is beautiful. He doesn’t know any plants like that in his life, or people, come to think of it. Natasha’s close, but different. Definitely not Steve. Not that he wants her to be, it wouldn’t change anything. She’s still not for Bucky. And Steve isn’t either, on a whole other level. But. He wishes.

He ends up in Steve’s room, having pestered him enough to get him to reveal he had another sketchbook full of drawings, and then to allow Bucky to see them. He smiles proudly the whole way down to G Deck, Steve blushing furiously. Bucky _does not_ find it cute. Not at all. He should be proud of his work, Bucky thinks. He’s damn good at it. Bucky would buy it all if — well if he thought that would go over well. Which it wouldn’t. Especially not on his side, with his mother in his face every day about their depleting fortune. At times, he regrets planning to leave her behind, but other times he doesn’t. He’s also not sure how Steve would take the proposition, since Bucky was already a jerk last night, he wouldn’t want it to come out sounding like anything less than pride and good intentions.

"Here we are," Steve says, stopping at a door at the end of the hall. It opens with a creak, and he allows Bucky to enter first, like a gentleman. He smiles as Bucky passes, closing the door behind them. Bucky sees the bunk bed, both mattresses covered in tousled sheets, as is the single bed in the corner. "This one’s mine," Steve announces, gesturing to the bottom bunk. Bucky can’t imagine how such a large man manages to sleep in something so tiny, but Steve doesn’t seem perturbed. Bucky sits himself on his mattress as Steve goes rummaging through his belongings. He can’t help but notice the curve of Steve’s back as he folds himself in two, ass high in the air, tight against his pants, before he changes his mind and kneels down instead. That does nothing to stop Bucky’s mouth from watering at the bulge of his muscles against his shirt as he shuffles through his bag. Bucky tries to shift his view to the porthole behind Steve so he doesn’t give himself away, but he can’t stop his eyes from traveling. Thank God Steve finds it then.

"Here." He holds it out with a warm smile, dimple showing itself again. He hesitates, though, before giving it to Bucky. Bucky holds his eyes with encouragement, leaning closer. "Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere? There’s probably people looking for you."

"Probably," Bucky resigns, a smirk on his lips, shrugging his shoulders. "But dinner doesn’t start for another two hours, so we’ve got time. Now gimme," he beckons Steve forward. When he doesn’t move, Bucky gives him a stern look that pulls his feet forward, places Steve on the mattress next to him. Bucky smiles and takes the sketchbook from Steve.

There’s more people in this notebook than the other one, more specifically the same few people. He recognizes one as Sam from the ones he saw before, and he sees a woman from the other drawings as well. He didn’t ask who she was because he was afraid of what the answer might be. But, seeing her here again and again, lines strewn across the paper to create a fair face and eyes almost as kind as Steve’s… he has a hunch.

"Who’s this? You draw her a lot. She’s pretty," Bucky tells him, searching his face as he swallows hard.

The blue in his eyes has mixed with gray. "My mom," he answers, voice low. Bucky remembers the grave from the first notebook.

He squeezes Steve’s shoulder and tells him he’s sorry, and Steve tries to smile in thanks, but it’s weak. He squeezes again and goes back to the rest of the drawings, letting his hand linger. His thigh presses into Steve’s as he silently flips through the pages, and soon their arms are against each other, and Bucky can feel Steve’s breath fan out over his neck, as he cranes his own to look over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tries not to shudder, focuses on the sketches instead.

Soon, though, the door opens, and in bursts two men — one of which is Sam, Bucky knows. Steve peels himself away from Bucky rather quickly. Bucky pretends not to notice.

"Oh, hello," Sam says, looking between Bucky and Steve. "Steve, care to introduce us to your new friend?"

"Yeah, yeah, uh," Steve starts, rubbing the back of his hand and standing up. "Sam, Clint, this is Bucky Barnes. Bucky, Sam Wilson and Clint Barton." He gestures to all of them accordingly, flustered. Bucky tries not to find it endearing.

"Hey, how are ya," Clint greets, shaking Bucky’s hand. Sam does the same. Clint’s eyes travel Bucky’s ensemble; even though he dressed down it’s still obvious it’s First Class wear. "So," Clint starts, going over to lean against the wall by his bed. It doesn’t really create more space, the room is still small. Especially for three — now four — people. "How’d you meet our Steve, here?"

" _Your Steve?_ " Sam and Steve say at the same time and Bucky laughs. Clint just shrugs and beckons Bucky to get on with his answer.

"I, uh. Last night, at the stern. Just chatted for a bit," Bucky answers, feeling increasingly nervous for some reason. His eyes flick between the three other men in the room.

Clint’s face pulls into something puzzled. He looks at Sam, and back at Steve, whose cheeks are growing redder by the second. "Wait a minute —"

"Did you rope Steve into showing you his drawings?" Sam interrupts loudly, Clint looking affronted. "That’s a pretty mighty feat. I only got to see them since we lived in each other’s pockets, and it helped pay the rent. And let me tell ya, that wasn’t always willingly."

"It was never willingly," Steve mumbles. Everyone looks at him, Bucky with a quirked eyebrow and the sketchpad raised in his hand, Sam with a knowing smile on his face, and Clint with something both amused and unreadable. "I mean — uh," he coughs and fidgets, and Bucky spares him.

"It’s that charm of mine," he says to the room, broad smile to match. "Got it from my father, Ma always said it was irresistible. No surprise here that Stevie here fell victim."

Steve smiles gratefully, and Clint is mumbling, "Stevie?" to Sam, who shrugs. Bucky didn’t realize he gave him a new moniker, like they’ve known each other for more than 24 hours. But. Everything with Steve feels natural. Unnervingly so.

"Where’d you guys come from, anyway?" Steve asks the pair, eyeing their damp shirts.

Sam steps into the room. "Well, after you ditched us —" Steve blushes, again, and ducks his head — "me and Clint decided to roam the lower decks and found ourselves in the Dining Saloon — which apparently is used for drinking and _not_ dining. Anyway, there was some type of beer shit going on, and Clint here almost got beaten because he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut." Sam eyes Clint pointedly, who just grins and shrugs. "Asshole ended up with beer poured all over him, and _me_." He full on shoves Clint now and he falls back on his bed. Sam sits down next to him anyways. Bucky laughs at them.

"Sounds like you two had a good day," Bucky says, trying to confer with Steve, who is just shaking his head at them.

"Yeah, man. Free beer!" Clint cheers, throwing an arm around Sam’s shoulders.

"I can’t believe they roomed me with the two biggest idiots on this boat," Steve says.

"You came here with me willingly," Sam points out and Steve deflates back onto the mattress, giving up with them, it seems. Bucky rubs a hand along his back, for what reason he doesn’t really know, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. So there’s that.

The call for dinner comes too quickly, although Bucky doesn’t actually hear the announcement from Steve’s room, just guesses the time and makes it back to his quarters only seconds before. Steve walked him up, which, okay — he didn’t need to, but Bucky wasn’t going to try and stop him. Plus, it gives him a chance to make up an excuse to see him again, without Sam and Clint’s watchful eyes.

"Meet me at the benches? 9:30?" He fears he seems too hopeful, too imploring, but the way Steve’s eyes light up washes away any anxiety he was feeling.

"Sure. See ya then, Buck." He claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, touch warm and soft, lingering there long after his hand has left. "Have a good dinner."

"It’s actually impossible, but I’ll try. Just for you," he grins at Steve, and Steve returns it. Bucky is sort of taken aback at how easy he finds it to talk with Steve, how effortless it is to make jokes and treat him like a — well, a human being. He’s not used to that, and yet. It’s so simple.

When Steve walks away, he tries not to think about how that’s the second time he’s been called 'Buck' in a day. Not even Nat calls him that. He smiles to himself and pushes open the door.

~~

"Fancy seeing you here."

Steve turns around when Bucky announces himself, smiling wide. He plays along though, "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were followin' me." He smirks at Bucky, then gestures for him to sit on the bench.

Bucky shakes his head. "No, no. This was just a meeting spot. Come on." He bucks his head but Steve takes too long to get up, eyebrows knitted and nose scrunched in puzzlement. Bucky sighs and reaches forward and yanks him up, and maybe his fingers slip into Steve's on purpose, maybe it was just an accident. If anyone asks, then it's an accident. If Steve asks, then it was definitely an accident — but Bucky's not sure that'll happen, when Steve adjusts his hand in his to make it more comfortable.

And then they're walking, hand in hand. And there's barely anyone on the decks, and those who are pay them no mind. Not that they could see that well under the dark night sky. Bucky looks up and thanks those stars for this little bit of space. Little bit of freedom. He looks back at Steve. This little bit of a breather. The constriction in his chest deflates when Steve looks down at him, even the slight smile he gives making his dimple pop, something warm fluttering in Bucky's chest. His hand is clammy, he knows. But Steve doesn't say a thing. And Bucky can't help it — he wonders, _wonders_ , what's going on in Steve's head, what he is, what he believes, who he is, if he has no problem holding onto Bucky's hand for no reason other than neither of them let go. And, _neither of them let go_ , is the thing that's got Bucky's heart racing under his jacket. He didn't even really need to take his hand, but no one is pointing that out.

"Where are you taking me to?" Steve asks as they head down the deck stairs.

"Curiosity killed the cat, young Steven," Bucky teases, looking back at Steve. He pauses, "How old are you anyway?"

"Nineteen," Steve answers, proudly.

"Yeah, so I was right. Young Stephen," he says again, noticing Steve’s reddening cheeks. "It’s not so bad, only a two year difference." It’s interesting, how 'Steven' is a joke now. Bucky tugs him along farther down the boat.

"I’m still taller than you," Steve mutters, and Bucky flips him the bird, both of them laughing far too wildly for the situation. "How was dinner?" Steve asks when it dies down.

Bucky’s hand jerks in his, squeezes a little too hard as his jaw sets, but Steve just rubs his thumb across the back of Bucky’s hand. And, _that_ , okay — Bucky swallows. "It was… unimportant," Bucky decides, not wanting to discuss these types of things with Steve. When Steve makes him forget. "And here we are," Bucky says quickly, opening his arms wide.

Steve looks around, eyes skeptical as he turns back to Bucky. "This is just the front of the ship. What’s so special about this?"

"Nothing, really. We’re just gonna wait here until it’s time to go. It’s too early," Bucky explains, tugging Steve along to the riggings.

"Early?" Steve laughs, looking up at the night sky, stars shining through, moon hiding behind wispy clouds. "It’s almost ten."

"You’re not tired are ya?" Bucky grins, needling Steve again. "Is it past your bedtime or something?"

"Shut up," Steve giggles — _giggles_ — shoving Bucky lightly. He loses his balance and trips into the strings and pulleys connected to the ship. It’s a unfathomable web above them. The momentum makes him swing around as he holds on, knocking him into the railing. He leans over the edge of the boat some, before Steve’s large hands are on his waist, gripping hard.

"Shit, shit. I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry," Steve is babbling, pulling Bucky back inwards. Steve is either stronger than he thinks, or Bucky is lighter than they both think, or Steve was just really fucking worried — because Bucky slams against his chest when he comes back to balance. Steve doesn’t even budge, which is — understandable. Good to know. Bucky coughs and then Steve is turning him around, into his frame, and Bucky is enveloped in his size and stature. Steve runs his hands along his arms fretfully.

"Are you okay? Oh my God, I’m so — shit. Sorry. Shit."

Bucky laughs, and Steve’s face contorts into confusion. "You curse like a sailor," he says, and Steve visibly relaxes, realizing Bucky’s alright. "I could fucking report you for that," he says, teasing, waiting for Steve to catch it. When he does, he laughs, letting go of Bucky and running a hand through his hair.

"Jerk."

Bucky guffaws, throwing his head back and heading back behind him to the railing. "Come on, Stevie. Just messin’ with ya." He peers over the edge, seeing the sharp edge of the ship, as it cuts through the ocean, propelling them forward, closer and closer to home. "Seriously, though, I’m fine. That was fun," he says.

Steve looks appalled. "How was that fun, exactly?" He comes up to the railing with Bucky, smile dropping when he sees the look in Bucky’s eyes — the challenge, the adventure that never leaves him, no matter how many formal dinners and cotillion lessons he had to go through. He’s still Bucky, still his father’s son.

Bucky hoists himself up and forward, leaning dangerously between the riggings and rails, swinging by his fist like an ape on a vine, enjoying far too much the look of horror on Steve’s face.

"Bucky!" Steve hisses, reaching for him. "You're gonna fall off." He gets his hands around the lapels on Bucky's jacket, and Bucky pulls him up with him, with as much balance as possible — surprisingly not falling off the edge. Steve shrieks and wraps his arms around Bucky, clutching his back with one hand and the railing behind him with the other.

Bucky laughs hysterically. "Relax, Steve. Calm down, look at this view. We'll be fine — just... yeah," he trails, when Steve's body becomes less rigid, trusting. Trusting Bucky. He peers behind him into the dark water, eyes lightening with enjoyment and bliss, disbelief. If Bucky looks closely, he can see the twinkle of the stars above in Steve's pupils, as if there weren't enough shining there regardless. He swallows. Steve hasn't loosened his grip on Bucky even though he seems content with the situation. He's bracketed between Steve and the point of the bow, held in his frame.

"Buck..." Steve whispers, taking in the scene around him. To anyone else, it would look like they're trying to jump off, or floating, the way they're pressed and leaning against the edge. Bucky turns around so his back is pressed to Steve's chest, and Steve's hand doesn't move, his palm now warm against Bucky's middle, through his shirt. "This is... Wow."

Bucky thinks, yeah, it is, leaning further into Steve. Subtly, though. And then he realizes, he could let go. So he does. He lets go of the railing, throwing his arms out wide and Steve clutches him even harder when he realizes what's happening, breath fanning unevenly against Bucky's ear. "If I fall, you realize you're coming down with me," Bucky teases, stomach firm against Steve's hand when he laughs. He can feel the vibrations of Steve's own chuckle in his sternum, traveling along his bones from his spine to his feet.

"I won't let you fall," Steve says. And it's so — so earnest, _honest_. Bucky believes it wholeheartedly even though he never actually thought he'd fall in the first place. He's beginning to realize Steve is serious trouble for him.

The wind whips around them, moonlight shining down. Bucky finds it hard to believe no one else is roaming the decks, really. But most everyone has their own obligations to tend to, or parties. Bucky wonders what it's like to not have things to do and people to greet and places to go. Even here with Steve right now — he should be somewhere else, he should be in the Smoking Room, or attending to Natasha, but. Steve makes him forget but he doesn't make it go away. Just like Bucky is his father's son, he is also his mother's. He is still James Barnes. He's still engaged. He's still trapped.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, craning his neck to meet his eyes. "You alright?"

Bucky then realizes he had let a tear fall, that it landed on Steve's hand. He clears his throat and nods, peeling himself away from Steve, almost stumbling as he steps back on the deck. Steve frowns down at him, blue eyes full of concern; sympathy. Bucky shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine. It was just the wind. Got me crying like a baby," he laughs, but even he can tell it comes out short and brittle. Steve opens his mouth to say more but Bucky cuts him off. "What time is it?"

Steve pauses, but doesn't press further. He pulls out a wristwatch from his pocket. When Bucky eyes it, eyebrow quirked, he explains, "It was my mom's. Too small for my wrist." Bucky nods. He can see how that would be a problem; if she was as thin as she was in the drawings, Steve's more than twice her size, he guesses. Also, most didn't take too kindly to men wearing things designed for women. Apparently the pocket watch was more dignified. "Almost midnight," Steve says, and Bucky forgot he asked.

His face must twist into something wicked because Steve looks dubious and amused at the same time.

"What?" Steve asks, beginning to step down, reluctance in his movements.

Bucky extends his hands out to him, "Don’t ya trust me?" he asks, and when Steve’s somehow warm and calloused hands slip into his, eyes bright with anticipation, Bucky can feel the _yes_ before Steve opens his mouth to say it. He helps Steve hop onto the deck, grinning madly. Far too much, he thinks. Far too gone, he is.

 

**SATURDAY, APRIL 13TH, 1912**

** Steve **

"Bucky, slow down," Steve says, nearly tripping down the stairs. Bucky’s grip is tight in his, and he’s laughing wildly as he leads Steve to wherever he has planned for them to go. Steve is suspicious, but compliant nonetheless. He was surprised at how easy it was to trust him; he realizes he felt comfortable with him just moments after meeting him. And that was barely two days ago. Steve might have different motivations for sticking so close to Bucky — hell, he _knows_ he does. He thinks it’s half the reason he approached him the other night, if not just to marvel at the stars. But Bucky’s good company regardless, even if Steve has his suspicions. He shakes himself out of those though; there’s no point in being overly masochistic. But as he looks at Bucky’s back as they go, palms sweating where they’re mingled with his, heart racing in his chest, he thinks he’s past that point.

"What’s so special about the F Deck?" he asks, looking around as Bucky leads him down corridors. "Other than the eggs they served this morning."

Bucky turns as they walk, grinning. "This is way better than some measly eggs, promise ya."

"I dunno, they were pretty amazing," Steve teases, coming up to walk next to Bucky.

"Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet," Bucky replies. He turns Steve down a corner, weaving through halls and walls. Steve tries not to choke on the pet name, and instead swallows down nothing in hopes of keeping the noise in his throat.

"It seems to me you’re a little lost, Mr. Barnes," Steve teases, eyeing the frown between Bucky’s eyebrows as his eyes scan the signs.

Bucky groans. "Don’t call me that." He looks at Steve and visibly shudders, making a disgusted face. Steve smirks back at him and Bucky rolls his eyes. "You punk." They pass by the elevators, where the attendee is opening the doors to a young couple, about Steve’s age, about Steve’s Class. Bucky pays them no mind as he pulls Steve past, but the attendee purses his lips at them, noticing their clasped hands, staring at Steve in revulsion. But Bucky has him turning the corner again before he can think too hard on it.

"And here we are," Bucky gleams, throwing his arms out wide. Steve looks up.

_First Class Swimming Pool._

"No," Steve says, shaking his head and stepping back. Bucky just smiles. "Buck, _no_. I can’t — we can’t. I’m not allowed in."

Bucky’s eyes darken and his posture goes incredibly rigid. He clamps his hands on Steve’s shoulders. "Steve, I don’t give a fuck about what Class you are, and neither should you. We’re going swimming, right fucking now. Don’t let them get in your head like that, you can do anything you want, be anything you want." Bucky swallows hard, looking pained. His eyes dart a little before he locks them on Steve, looking sure and strong. But Steve can see through it, can see the cracks. Bucky doesn’t follow his own advice. He probably needs this more than Steve does, more than he let on.

So Steve nods and squeezes Bucky’s arm. "What are we waiting for, then?"

Bucky’s smile is bright as he yells, "Come on!" and drags Steve through the door. Steve doesn’t even have a chance to look around before Bucky is running and jumping into the pool. The splash is far bigger than Steve expected, and some sprays him in the aftermath.

When Bucky’s head pops back up, hair mussed and free of the gel, he laughs. "You’re ridiculous!"

"Maybe," Bucky quips, shaking out his head. "You gonna join me or what?" The look in his eyes is dangerous, adventurous, challenging; they’re as crisp as the water he floats in, bright and beckoning. Steve couldn’t turn it down even if he wanted to. Even if he hasn’t swam in years, and is not sure he can still, he jumps in anyways, feet first and eyes closed, the imprint of a blinding white smile flashing behind his eyelids.

When he resurfaces, Bucky has a glint in his eye, but a softness to his features. Steve can’t analyze it, but he tries and fails, realizing seconds too late that Bucky is going to splash him. The wave that crashes down on him is strong, smacking his skin, but he laughs anyways. Reciprocates without question.

"You’re dead, Rogers!" Bucky shouts, chasing after Steve as he swims away. He gives up on that when he grasps the fact that he is taller than the water, and can run along the floor tiles instead of flapping his arms and legs like they were getting him somewhere. He laps the pool a couple of times, Bucky right behind him, throwing splashes between each other, exhaustion easily settling. Steve calls for a truce when Bucky inevitably corners him, arms ready to deliver a bucket upon him. He breathes out heavily, chest rising and falling fast, and holds his arms up in surrender. "Don’t wimp out," Bucky says, upper lip curled.

"Come on, Buck. Bucky," Steve repeats when he inches closer. "Come on. Don’t. Bu —" Water gets in his mouth and drips down his face, traveling the slender bridge of his nose, the curve of his neck, down his chest and back into the pool, rippling back towards Bucky, who is laughing hysterically. "Jerk," Steve says, flinging the water from his hair onto Bucky. He doesn’t seem to care.

"Oh, that was brilliant!" Bucky glees, paddling towards Steve. He leans on the side of the pool, looking at Steve far too happily.

"Yes, ha ha, so funny," Steve deadpans, wringing out his shirt. Which, obviously, proves to be useless, so he strips himself free of it and lays it to dry on the deck. When he looks back, Bucky’s eyes are trained on his torso, but are quickly averted. And then he rips his own off.

"So," he asks, hand fiddling with the water, "I feel like you didn’t give me a real answer before. You sure you don’t got anyone special back home?"

Steve shakes his head without even fully processing the question. It’s a habit he needs to shake, but he’s just so tired of the question. He’s not really _allowed_ to have anyone back home, despite living where he does. It’s still — he swallows. Looks up at Bucky, trying not to seem melancholic, but he can tell he fails when Bucky’s eyes soften considerably. "Nah, no one."

"Steve," Bucky starts, voice low; a whisper.

Steve doesn’t let it go farther, and spins the conversation around. "What about you, huh? Got your wedding coming up, right?" He tries not to let it hurt.

Bucky’s eyes don’t lighten. "No. I mean, yeah — but."

"It’s not _your_ wedding, is it?" Steve asks; he knows how the world of money works, even if he doesn’t have any.

Bucky sighs, spinning to lean fully on the ledge. "Mother’s been pressing me to merge our dwindling fortune with Natasha’s father’s. You know, ever since my father died, she — nothing’s been the same. He handled the money, he managed the banks, he kept her happy, together. He was everything to our family. He was everything to m—" Bucky’s voice cracks then, head falling down and Steve grips his arm, keeping his hand there, reassuring, as Bucky controls his breathing. He waits until he’s ready. "Our money’s leaving, already gone, basically. And Nat has some. And needed a husband." He scoffs and swings his hand, the platinum band on his finger glinting in the moonlight that shines through the porthole. "And I — don’t want to. I’m not. I plan on leaving when the ship docks."

Steve almost gasps. "Bucky… that’s —"

"I know," he says. "But I can’t go through with it. I love Nat, but —" he coughs. "Not like that. Not enough to marry her. She’s just a dear friend. Said I could go if I really wanted."

"So you’re gonna leave her, and your family," Steve says.

Bucky looks at him, anger in his eyes. "Don’t — don’t give me that. You have no idea what it’s like to be so trapped — so lost. I never —"

"Hey, hey," Steve interrupts, squeezing his arm again. "I’m not gonna stop you. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it. You deserve to be happy, Buck. Everyone does." He rubs his hand along his side, watching as Bucky’s back goes slack. Feels his muscles loosen.

Steve’s not sure he hears it right, or at all, but with the way his heart is beating in his chest, it seems real enough when Bucky whispers, "You make me happy, Steve." Real when Bucky looks at him then, eyes deep and warm, honest, yet reluctant. And Steve — there’s no way he can’t — he leans in. He’s believing far too easily, but the pull of the moment takes him closer to Bucky, closer to his lips. His heart is ready to escape out of his throat, when Bucky lays his hand overtop of Steve’s, licking his lips. Steve thinks, no, it can’t have been this easy, can’t be happening. But.

When their lips touch, sparks fly through Steve’s body, heart skipping. The knots in his stomach and tension in his neck erase when Bucky’s hands find their way there, one smoothing over his abdomen underwater, the other across his neck, fingers in the hair at his nape. Steve wraps his around Bucky’s shoulder, the water pulling him closer easily. Bucky sighs into Steve’s mouth, lips sliding across each other before slotting back, warm and wet. Perfect.

He shifts his arms down around Bucky’s middle, turning gently in the water so his back is against the edge of the pool as he hoists Bucky up in front of him, biting at his lower lip. Bucky keeps his knees on Steve’s hips, fingers tightening in his hair, tongue slipping into his mouth. Steve moans outright, the pressure of the water on him and Bucky’s waist hard, the feeling of Bucky’s mouth on his too much. Bucky breathes a laugh between his lips, curling around Steve’s tongue, pulling him in closer as they kiss. It’s wild, messy, wet. Erotic.

Bucky lets himself drift lower, letting his thigh drag against Steve. Steve slides his hand down, along Bucky’s spine and to the curve of his ass, fingers trailing. Bucky stutters in his kiss, stutters his hips, licks into Steve’s mouth with a breathy moan. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds Steve’s heard in his life. His chest is flush against Bucky’s, can feel his heartbeat matching his own. He squeezes his hands where they lay, affectionate, happy, and Bucky smiles against him. Nips at his lip. Kiss lingering at the side of his mouth, one pressed to his nose. Bucky lets his forehead rest against Steve’s, smile broad. Chest pounding against Steve’s as they breathe in tandem, his rising as Steve’s falls. He presses his lips to Steve’s again, lightly.

"There’s no way I’m this lucky," Bucky says, hands running over Steve’s hair.

"That’s usually my line," Steve jokes, chuckling when Bucky smiles warmly at him. He spreads his palms over Bucky’s back. Now he understands. Bucky was trapped in every way possible. A marriage that wasn’t for him. Steve would leave, too. "I’m sorry," he whispers into Bucky’s shoulder, pressing his lips against the soft skin.

Somehow, Bucky knows what he’s talking about. "’S alright. Used to it." He shrugs.

"It’s not alright," Steve frowns.

"Yeah, but we don’t get to have what we want, do we?" Bucky answers bitterly.

Steve circles his fingers along Bucky’s back, pinching lightly, smiling warmly. "We have this," he says. He pulls Bucky’s arm down, slides his hand across, lets his fingers travel Bucky’s palm before he locks his fingers in. Bucky squeezes, nuzzling his nose against Steve’s cheek.

"We should probably get out of the pool," Bucky says, pulling back. There’s something to his face that wasn’t there before, some new feature that has Steve feeling warm, heart fluttering.

"Probably," he agrees.

~~

Steve feels odd going to bed alone.

Well, he knows there was no chance he could spend the night with Bucky. But, it just seems anticlimactic, honestly. His nerves are still jittery, adrenaline pumping through his body, heart flying high. He bid Bucky goodnight on the stairs just before B Deck, kissing him quick, in case someone walked past. But Bucky grabbed him by his soggy shirt, pulled him in hard and smashed his lips against Steve’s. Steve cupped Bucky’s elbows and sucked on his bottom lip, and then Bucky was gone, through the corridor, off to his obligations.

Steve dragged his feet all the way back to G Deck, weaving absentmindedly through the halls, waiting until he could see Bucky again. Of course, Sam and Clint saw Steve approach, and ruined everything.

"Why the hell is _your_ shirt wet? Shit, why is your whole body wet?" Sam asks, poking at Steve as they walk into their room.

Steve shrugs, trying to keep his face nonchalant. "Went for a swim."

"What?!" Clint exclaims from his bunk. "It’s fucking freezing out there — how the hell did you even —"

"Not in the ocean, shithead," Sam interrupts.

"Then where? The only other place — Oh, you did not!" Clint looks far too excited, bouncing on his mattress, prompting Steve to continue.

The whole nonchalant thing Steve was going for fails miserably. He blushes. "It’s not a big deal," he tries, but Sam and Clint are shaking their heads.

"It is, too! The fucking First Class Swimming Pool. I can’t believe he took you there. No one was there?" Clint asks. Sam leans on the post of the bunk beds, eyeing Steve knowingly. He reminds himself to avoid Sam as much as possible.

Steve flashes back, no, no one was there, not a soul. Just him, Bucky, the water, and the stars. "Too late for the high rollers to be out enjoying themselves," Steve says, yawning.

"Must’ve been fun," Sam says, smirk on his face Steve does not want to talk about. It’ll haunt him, he knows.

"Yeah, exhausting, though. I’m beat. Night, fellas." He shuffles out of the room and to the bathroom quickly to change out of his damp clothes, not looking at either of them as he comes back and slips under the covers. He turns his back to them but he can still hear them whispering.

He thinks about Bucky, his eyes, his smile, his fearsome personality. He thinks about how much he trusts Bucky, how much he enjoys his company, how many times he’s made Steve laugh. Steve thinks he loves Bucky. And that’s troubling, considering their positions, considering it’s only been two days. But he does, he thinks. And if he’s lucky enough to find that, so quickly, so reciprocated — well, he hopes — then he’s not going to let it go. Things like this simply don’t happen to people like Steve.

 

** Bucky **

Bucky can't stop smiling. And that enough raises every eyebrow he walks past. Which just belong to the maid and Natasha, as it turns out. He glances at the clock: 2 AM. Everyone else is asleep. Bucky should be, too. With Steve. But that's not his life.

"You look far too chipper for this hour," Nat comments from their bed, novel in hand. He knows where she stuffs them under the mattress, in between gargantuan coats in suitcases during their travels. Hides them in Bucky's own library so as not to attract questions or reprimands. He wishes she would come with him.

"Just..." Bucky sighs, keeping casual. "In a good mood," he finalizes. He moves about the cabin, collecting his nightclothes, avoiding Natasha's eyes.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with that blond fellow you've been spending time with, would it?" she asks, and Bucky stops, stutters his steps. He looks back at her, feigning ignorance. But her smile is too devious for him to even attempt the charade for longer. "Don't think I don't notice things. You've run off to him every chance you've gotten."

"What, have you been following me?" Bucky asks, pulling on his cotton pants.

"No need." She answers simply, eyes scanning over the pages. "You mustn't forget I am actually quite intelligent. More so than you."

Bucky wants to protest, but he finds it's true. He nods, smiling, and continues changing.

"You might want to hand those over to Maria," Nat says, nodding at Bucky's day clothes. They drip onto the carpet. Right. Nat laughs when Bucky sighs grandly — he doesn't know why he ever tries to hide anything from her. She always knows.

"You know, you are actually the worst," he tells her, climbing into bed. She sets her novel down and smiles warmly at him, carding her fingers through his hair. He exhales into their pillows, relaxing against the soft bedding.

"I'm glad you've found someone to make you happy, Bucky," she whispers above his head, fingers going still.

He squeezes his eyes shut, arms tightening around the pillow they rest on. He — he's tried for so long, so hard, to forget it all. To be this thing he was raised into, what his mother wants him to be, needs him to be. But. It's not, and never will be, anything he can do. His body aches with it, the pretending, the emotionless spiral, the inescapable feeling. When he decided to lose that, to leave this behind like he should have a long time ago, it all lessened. It wasn't gone, but it was bearable. Something to motivate him, keep him going. Only a couple of more days on this ship, and he plans to spend them all with Steve. And when he's with Steve, the feelings, the weights, they disappear, if only for that little while; he feels free.

He slides his arm across her waist, bringing her to his body tight, embracing her in gratitude. She slides down the mattress, setting her book down and clicking off the lamp. She drops a kiss onto Bucky's forehead before turning away from him, resting her arm overtop of his. Traces patterns on the back of his hand until he falls asleep.

~~

His mother is insufferable.

"I've hardly seen you since we came aboard," she chides, running a thumb across his cheek. "Natasha's father hasn't seen you join them in the Smoking Room."

"Maybe because I don't enjoy cigars, Mother," he says, pulling away from her grasp.

"James," she warns, voice low. Her eyes scan over his face. "Where has your head been, hmm? I'm worried about you." Her hand finds it's way back to him, running over his hair. She's probably just fixing a loose strand, he suspects.

"I'm fine, Mother. I just prefer not to spend the day discussing politics while choking on the smoke and their egos." He watches as her eyes dim, face saddening at his words.

"Darling, remember what needs to be done here. Natasha and her father need to know you are —"

"I don't need to prove anything! The wedding is in a week and Natasha is just fine. Her father has already accepted me, I don't need to be up his ass every moment of the day," he snaps, hand flying in the air.

The sting across his cheek should've been expected, really. But it catches him off guard, head turning upon the impact. His mother glares at him. "Don't you ever speak to me like that," she spits. "You may be twenty-one but you are still my son. I am your mother and you will not regard me in that way. James, this is important — the money is —"

And he turns and runs. Runs out of the Parlor Room and down the Grand Staircase. She calls after him, but he keeps going, ignores the looks he receives. It's — too much.

He detours down the deck steps on the far side of the boat, shoes clicking against the stairs as he goes. He — well, he probably shouldn’t have done that. He loves his mother, he does, and he knows she cares for him, but. Not in the way she should care, the way he needs her to, the way his father would. He thinks she’d probably explode if she knew of his feelings for Steve, the feelings he’s supposed to have for Natasha, for all women, really. He can’t speak for his father, although he thinks it’d be easier with him still around. No matter the taboo surrounding it, he thinks he could’ve confided in his father. But it’s too late for that. And he knows his mother means well, but more for her sake than his, though she probably thinks Bucky is on the same side as she is, wants this just as much. But, he doesn’t, and thinks running away from her might’ve conveyed that.

He knocks on Steve’s door, knuckles pounding against the wood. Steve answers in nothing but his pants, grinning when he sees Bucky, but it deflates quickly, frown etching his face. Before he can say anything, however, Bucky is rushing into the room, knocking into him. "I need you," he breathes out, and Steve’s arms immediately wrap around his smaller frame, warm and encompassing, comforting. He sighs into Steve’s chest, fingers clutching at the waistband of his pants as he holds him tight.

"It’s okay, you’re okay," Steve whispers into his skin, lips trailing lightly across the shell of his ear. Bucky thinks it’s amazing, how they couldn’t have done this just twelve hours ago, but now it — it’s natural, no hesitation. Bucky feels safe here, at home. That should feel dangerous to him, but it’s anything but. He curls closer to Steve, keeps his head tucked under his chin even after his chest is no longer constricted. Grazes his lips over Steve’s chest, trails along the pale skin, and Steve tightens his grip around Bucky’s body, head falling down to his nape, breaths fanning out.

He thinks it must be comforting for Steve, too. To finally be able to hold someone like this, to have someone. Bucky wants him to know that he does, have someone, that is. Someone he can trust, confide in, hold, kiss. He runs his fingers along Steve’s back, tracing the dip at his waist, swirling back up to his shoulder blades. He lifts his head up and presses his lips against Steve’s neck, waiting for his head to turn towards Bucky as his lips travel up to his ear, along his jaw. He kisses Steve’s chin, the side of his mouth before matching their lips together.

Steve kisses him back just as much as Bucky does, hands spanning his back, chest flat against his. His lips are a little chapped from the cold April air and his sleep, but Bucky licks across them anyways, melding into him like it's an old game they play, a known rhythm. Fingers curl into skin and lips slot together and Bucky feels incredibly at peace.

Steve pulls back, hands cupping Bucky's cheeks, thumbs circling. He smiles, warm and sweet. Bucky kisses him again. Because he can, and wants to, and having those things match up is not something he's used to in life. A luxury even he can't afford.

"Good morning," Steve says, voice cracked from sleep and kissing Bucky. "How are you?" It's more than a casual greeting, real concern laced in the question, inflection of his words serious.

"Better," Bucky says, reaching a hand through Steve's hair. Steve looks down at him, waiting. Bucky sighs. "Just my mother reminding me how very important it is that I hold the family together by marrying Nat." He lets his forehead fall onto the middle of Steve’s chest, Steve’s hands sliding back to his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything, not that Bucky thinks it would matter if he did. There’s nothing to say that they don’t already know, nothing that can be done. He just breathes in Steve’s scent, something natural hidden under the grime of the day on a ship, the smell of the pool water still on his skin, the laundered sheets he slept in. "’S funny," he says, pulling his head up.

"Hmm?" Steve hums, hand on the back of Bucky’s neck.

"Never woulda thought this could happen," he says, gesturing between the two of them. "In the middle of the Atlantic of all places," he chuckles and Steve does as well, kissing the top of Bucky’s head.

"I’m glad it did," Steve says.

Bucky peers up at him, eyes meeting his blue ones, the sky behind him no comparison to the sight Bucky sees here, right in his space, in his arms. His lips curl up, taking in every bit of Steve. "Me too." And when Steve kisses him he holds on with everything he has, fingers clutching at his skin, bodies pressed as close as they can, molded together, mouths meeting, messy and beautiful.

~~

"Don’t sit like that," Steve says, laughing when Bucky pulls his face into something even more obnoxious. "Stop it. Bucky," he giggles. Bucky pulls faces at him a few more times before Steve balls up a sheet of paper and chucks it at him, bouncing off his head and falling into the ocean.

"That can’t be good for the fish," Bucky comments, and Steve flips him the bird. "Okay, okay. I’ll sit still," Bucky surrenders, relaxing on the chaise. The sun beats down on his forehead, a nice contrast to the cold air at nighttime. Steve sets his sketchpad on his lap, charcoals and pencils next to him. Bucky had realized he never got Steve to draw him anything, and dragged him to the Bridge Deck immediately, setting both of them down in chairs under the sun. He figured Steve might as well draw him, since his work with people is exquisite. He told Steve as much, and he promptly blushed profusely, not that Bucky wanted that to happen. No.

"Okay, just. Relax," Steve tells him, readying up his pencil. "Look over there, turn your whole head, yeah. That’s it. Don’t move. Widen your legs."

"That’s mighty forward, Stevie," Bucky quips, doesn’t turn his head to see Steve’s reaction, doesn’t really need to, honestly.

Steve’s voice is hoarse when he speaks again. Bucky smiles to himself. "You jerk — wait, yeah, keep that smile. Just there, yeah. Just… be."

That’s something Bucky hasn’t gotten to do in a long time, he thinks. Just be. He gets to, here, with Steve. Even in the middle of the ship, hundreds of people milling about, so many eyes on him, he feels calm and happy. Because Steve is right there, his. He relaxes into the sound of the first scrapes of charcoal across paper, listens to the slide of Steve’s hand amidst the waves of the ocean below them, the noise of the people around them. He hears it all, takes it all in, breathing deep and basking in the sun. The feeling. He’s far too wrapped up in it, too lost. He doesn’t realize when it’s over. Steve’s hand on his shoulder pulls him out of it. Bucky blinks, looking at the drawing extended out to him. "Done already?"

"What do you mean 'already?' It was about half an hour," Steve says, sitting down next to him. He runs a hand over his head. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just daydreaming, I guess," he answers, leaning into Steve’s touch for the split second he can before it's gone. They are still on the Bridge Deck. They can be together, but separate. That’s it. Bucky wants to take him somewhere. "Lemme see," he says, grabbing for the paper. "Steve. Holy shit."

"What?" He squeaks, stiffening beside him. He reaches hastily for the paper but Bucky holds it out of reach, pushing him back with his other hand.

"Would you — it’s wonderful. Stop it." He smacks Steve lightly on the head when he doesn’t stop making hands for it. "Steve, please. I love it. Really."

"Do — okay," he resigns, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. "Really?" he asks again, turning to glance at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

Bucky pinches his side, making Steve yelp and sit up straight. His smile is too devious when he says, "Of course I do. I love everything you've drawn, Stevie. You’re so talented."

Steve’s smile is brighter than the sun, broad and wide. Beautiful. Steve leans in for just a moment, and Bucky almost — _almost_ — forgets, but Steve remembers before he can, darting back into his own space. This is not working for Bucky. Steve doesn’t look too pleased about it either.

"Come on, let’s go eat," he says, bucking his head and rising to his feet. He lets his hand travel up the side of Steve’s arm as he does so. Just something. Steve nods and collects his things, following close behind Bucky to one of the Saloons. He tries to find a corner with minimal lighting like they did before, but it’s far more crowded than Bucky expected and there’s barely enough room for the two of them.

"Steve!" someone yells, and they both turn to see Sam and Clint, Steve’s smile widening. "Haven’t see you all day," Sam says, reaching up to throw an arm around Steve’s shoulders. The position looks awkward and uncomfortable given Steve’s height, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind.

"You were gone when I woke up," Steve points out, frowning at them.

"Maybe if you hadn’t sauntered in at 2 AM you would’ve woken up with us," Clint says, staring pointedly between Bucky and Steve. Bucky averts his eyes and Steve chokes.

"We went to bed at the same time," Steve points out, small frown on his face. "And I’m here now. And we’re starved. Please tell me you have a place to sit." Steve looks behind them, eyes training on an empty table with two full glasses of beer resting there, more empty cups littered around.

"Yeah, come on," Sam says, and leads them to that very table. Bucky had a good feeling it was theirs.

Steve slips his hand into Bucky’s as they walk the short distance, using the folds of their clothes to obscure what already couldn’t be by the crowd. He squeezes lightly, letting go when they get to the table. Slides his chair closer to Bucky’s when they sit, knees knocking. Bucky holds his hand out again, and Steve finds it, joined hands resting on Bucky’s thigh. Sam and Clint immediately pick up the conversation they must’ve been having beforehand, bantering with Steve, telling stories and cracking jokes, and Bucky laughs like he hasn’t in years.

~~

The looks they receive from Sam and Clint when they beg off after lunch has Bucky’s heart pounding in his chest. Like they _know_. But. He could be overreacting. Looking far too into it. Could be completely wrong. But, he also thinks, if he’s right, then _it’s okay_. If they know, and haven’t said anything, and haven’t treated them differently, then it’s fine. Everything’s alright. He thinks. He hopes. He would like some people he can trust with this, can go to, because God knows his family is not that outlet.

"Steve," Bucky questions as they walk aimlessly through the decks. "Do Sam and Clint know? About you? Us?"

Steve stops walking, rests his palms on the banister, looking out at the wide ocean before them. Bucky stands next to him, loops his arm through his. Steve places his hand on top of Bucky’s, playing with his knuckles. "Sam does, having lived with me for most of my life and all," Steve answers, and Bucky nods. "He wouldn’t — he knows what it means to me, he knows how important it is. He would never tell anybody. Ever. He’s always — he’s been there since the beginning, been there for me when I was trying to change myself, to fix it all. Sam is — Sam is and always will be my best friend for that, even if he annoyingly tries to set me up with any guy he thinks could possibly want to." He laughs then, small and fond, looking over at Bucky. "I don’t know about Clint, though. But I think he has his suspicions." Steve shrugs. "He doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it, so neither am I."

Bucky scoots closer to him, pressing his arm against his, turning his palm up to lace his fingers with Steve’s. "I’m glad you had Sam around. When you needed him. That’s — that’s important." Bucky swallows the lump in his throat, the thickness there. He doesn’t realize his eyes are welling up until Steve gently wipes his calloused thumb under his eyelid.

"Bucky…" he whispers, leaning in close. Bucky closes his eyes to keep the tears in, and Steve presses kisses to each one, following with one to his nose and then his lips. "You’re not alone anymore," he says into Bucky’s mouth and Bucky almost sobs with that right there. He clutches onto Steve, enveloping himself in his frame, exhaling when Steve’s arms wrap around him in return. His chin rests above Bucky’s ear and Bucky kisses his chest through his shirt, lips lingering before he pulls his body away. Steve is staring at him, waiting for him to break, making sure he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t know what to do with that, how to handle Steve’s never ending genuine care and concern. "Come on," Steve says eventually, taking Bucky by the arm. "I’ve got something to show you."

Bucky lets himself be led, fingers tangling in Steve’s suspenders when he can. They go down and down, and when they reach G Deck, Steve starts weaving them through the corridors, passing by his own quarters. "Uh…" Bucky starts.

"I wasn’t taking you there," Steve says, barely paying him any mind. He does, however, reach his hand back, and Bucky takes it immediately, wraps Steve’s hand between both of his. "I figured this out the first night but never got a chance to check it out," he continues. "Someone decided to take up all my time," he looks back at Bucky then, smirk on his face, dimple protruding.

"Fuckin’ punk," Bucky laughs, and Steve squeezes his hand, tugs him along further. "Why’s it so hot?" he asks, and then discovers why. "Oh, fuck, they got you roomed next to the engine?"

"Yeah, we’re just that special, us Steerage folk," Steve jokes, and Bucky wants to say something, counter him, but Steve’s changing the subject again, pulling him farther. "It’s really convoluted trying to get here, it’s almost as if they didn’t want anyone stumbling upon it willy nilly, wreaking havoc and whatnot."

"Where are you… the Cargo Hold?" Bucky is confused. "What’s so special about people’s luggage?"

"You’d be surprised, Buck. There’s so much you can tell about a person from their luggage," Steve smiles mischievously, finding his way through the small and locked entrance somehow. "Come on." He holds his hand out for Bucky to step through, closing the door behind him. "Christ, it’s cold," Steve says, when they descend the stairs, rubbing his palms together.

"Well, we’re in the hull aren’t we? We’re practically in the goddamn ocean right now," Bucky remarks, arm extended to run his fingers along the cool metal. It stings with how cold it is. His other hand is still locked with Steve’s as they explore the hold before them, swinging arms mindlessly. They meander through the makeshift rows of luggage and boxes, barrels and packages, a few cars and buggies in the mix. Bucky finds himself wondering about the stories of everyone these things belong to, what’s so dear about them they couldn’t be left behind, what’s inside. He looks over at Steve as he wonders, too, eyes sweeping across a section of wooden boxes stamped with something Bucky doesn’t feel like reading.

Because Bucky suddenly realizes that they are very, very alone, and loses the will to explore. He pushes Steve against some boxes held together with intricately knotted rope, the confusion on Steve’s face melting when he sees the look in Bucky’s eye. His hands go to Bucky’s waist immediately, fingers finding their way under his shirt, squeezing his sides. Bucky breathes out upon the contact, Steve’s fingers cold against his bare skin, pushes himself closer to Steve. He mouths sloppily across Steve’s neck, nipping at his veins, relishing Steve’s shudders. Steve’s hands fidget with Bucky’s body, finding a place to go, swirling all around Bucky’s skin, gripping him tight. He sucks on Steve’s neck, under his jaw, below his ear, bites and tugs and pulls and licks, finding the spot that makes Steve wiggle the most, moan the most.

"No… no marks," Steve breathes out, grazing Bucky’s hair with it. He kisses Bucky’s ear.

Bucky sighs. While he knows it would be smart, he just — a bruise on Steve’s neck, a bruise from Bucky’s doing — _that_. That’s what Bucky wants. To be able to do that all the time, let everyone know. Kiss him without worry, mark him without fear of retribution. Be with him. But. "Fine," he grumbles into Steve's shoulder, kissing wildly at the curve.

"At least not where they can be seen," Steve amends, something to his voice Bucky has never heard. Bucky looks up at him, glint in his eye matching Steve’s. Bucky — Bucky has plans for that. He smiles and presses his fingers into the dips in Steve’s hips, thumbs circling low. Goosebumps rise on Steve’s skin, and Bucky licks a stripe up his nape, before tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth. Steve licks into his mouth as if it's an automatic response, breathing deep and hot. His lips fit with Bucky’s perfectly, rubbing against each other's, biting and sucking red raw, tongues swirling. Bucky lets his leg shift, thigh sliding over to press between Steve’s, only for Steve to stutter in his rhythm at the pressure. Bucky grins against him, biting at his lip again. Lets his fingers fall down, slipping beneath Steve’s waistband, snapping at his suspenders. He swirls his index finger below Steve’s navel, traveling farther down until he grazes the patch of hair there. Steve whimpers into him, surging his hips forward against Bucky’s thigh. Bucky’s no torturer, he’s not anything if not generous, and rocks his hips with Steve, pushing his hips down, back and forth, Steve sucking hard on his tongue.

"Steve," Bucky starts, breaking away from his mouth only for Steve to follow, kissing at any skin he can, humming in response. "I really want to fuck you, if that’s okay." And Steve stops cold, but Bucky feels the undeniable twitch against his thigh, the tightening of Steve’s fingers around his waist.

"Yes," Steve exhales, smashing his mouth back against Bucky’s. "God, yes. Please." Bucky nods with him, kissing him hard, teeth clacking against each other as they stumble around, losing the balance they found.

Steve goes for Bucky’s waistline, panting into his mouth. His fingers are on him before Bucky can even process, and he’s moaning into Steve’s mouth without warning. His fingers are warm now, Bucky thinks, as they work over him. He wills himself to speak. "Not — not here, though. M’ bed. Bed."

Steve nods fervently, nose knocking against Bucky’s. They manage to separate, breathing hard and fast, trying to control themselves. "What about your…" Steve stops, hand waving to finish the sentence.

"Well, if I’m right, dinner has started and they won’t be back for hours from either gossiping or smoking cigars," Bucky answers.

"They’re probably looking for you," Steve says.

"Yeah, but I don’t really care, now do I?" he replies, grinning at Steve. Steve smiles just as wide, leaning in to kiss Bucky hard again. "Come on, those pants of yours have been bothering me all day."

Steve frowns. "Why? What’s wrong with them?"

Bucky looks at him, takes in his simple confusion, and laughs at Steve’s naivety. He grabs Steve’s hand. "They’re _on_ is what’s wrong with them," he says, laughing again when he hears the small, "oh," from behind him. "You sure are lucky you’re pretty," Bucky says as he pulls Steve up the stairs.

"Shut up."

 

** Steve **

"Shit," Steve exhales upon entering Bucky's suite. Or, suites. "This is... this is bigger than my apartment back in Brooklyn." Steve wanders around the room, taking in the decorations and Victorian accents, all the furniture. The _couch_ probably cost more than Steve's apartment. The fireplace is bigger than his kitchen, honestly. He runs his finger along the mantle, tracing the intricacies of the design, following up to the vases and flowers that rest there. A pair of glasses sits unattended.

"It's obnoxious," Bucky says, snorting in derision. He's walking around, peeking in all the doors to make sure they are alone. "No one needs all this space, these horribly ugly decorations no one even cares about."

Steve considers that, looking around the room. They really are awful. But instead he says, "They tie the room together," lips cracking into a smile.

Bucky stares at him, shaking his head and pointing at Steve, still a smile in his eyes, though. "You're a punk," he says, coming closer. "Now take your clothes off."

"Yessir," Steve answers brightly, smirking as he leans down to meet Bucky's lips. Bucky snaps his suspenders hard, unclipping them from Steve's waistline. He kicks himself free of his shoes and pants, Bucky helping get them down around his thighs, holding him steady when he steps his feet out, both of them shuffling towards a door Steve can only assume is Bucky's.

They knock against the doorframe as they move blindly, trip over some rug, stumble into a dresser, never breaking lips, though. Bucky starts to strip himself free of his jacket and pants — which proves to be more challenging than it was with Steve, but Steve somehow manages to fumble along with him in the perfect combination to slide them off quickly.

"Shirt," Bucky mutters against his mouth, tugging at the material. He bites Steve's lips and tugs more, Steve complying quickly. When he splits himself from Bucky, he practically rips his shirt off, watching in confusion as Bucky struggles with his collar and roams around the other side of the bed. He tears off his own shirt eventually, rummaging through something Steve can't see until he presents a small tube. _Oh_. Steve stares at it, eyes wide and questioning, to which Bucky shrugs. "Being rich has its profits," he smirks. His lips are incredibly red. Steve gulps — he did that. "Bed," Bucky says and Steve scrambles for it, lying down and waiting, in just his socks and underwear. He peers up at the open canopy above him, the curtains tied around the four posts. He scoots himself back to the plush headboard, reveling when Bucky crawls up to him, removing his socks as he goes, tossing them aside. He sets the tube on the bed, comes up and straddles Steve's hips, smiling down at him.

Steve acts before he does, running his hand up Bucky's thigh, swirling his finger along his hipbone. He looks up, taking in all of the man before him, feeling completely ethereal. Bucky is ethereal, and Steve is too lucky. And when Bucky quirks a brow at him, Steve slips his hand down, between his underwear, wrapping around Bucky. His hips jerk at Steve's touch, and he leans down to kiss Steve in praise. Reciprocates the act. Their hands work in a tandem rhythm, until the writhing is too much, the whimpering too much, Steve breathless but not undone. "Bucky," he huffs, kissing at his neck. "Buck." He pats his thigh, grabs his other hand and slides it over the curve of his waist.

"Right, yeah, sorry," Bucky says, breaking away from the kiss, chest rising and falling heavily. "Gotta be honest, I’ve been thinking about this since you drew me this morning," he says with a lot less breathlessness to his voice than Steve was expecting. It takes Steve a moment, but then he remembers, slides off his underwear and spreads his legs with a smile. Bucky looks at him hungry, leans down and kisses his hip bones, where the pale skin is taut against the ridges, kisses Steve just above the patch of hair, trails his finger along him. Bucky’s hands fly out, one removing his final piece of clothing and one searching the bedding for the Jelly, fitting his knees between Steve’s legs when he finds it. Steve stares at him, taking him in — all of him. Feels something tighten in his chest. Bucky sits up, spreading the KY across his fingers, and smiles down at Steve. Leans in and kisses him, breathing hard with it. "Ready?" he asks, and Steve nods. Yes, yes, _yes_.

It’s cold and slick, and Steve moans outright. Bucky works him, his legs fidgeting against the mattress, Bucky’s tongue between his teeth. Concentrated. Focused. Beautiful. Steve wants to kiss him. He beckons Bucky forward with his hands, eyes desperate probably. Bucky goes to him, lets Steve’s fingers wrap in his hair and Steve’s tongue slide in his mouth. Steve jolts when Bucky adds another finger, then another, and then Steve isn’t even kissing him anymore, just whining against him, lips raw and red.

"Bucky," he cries, panting hard.

Bucky nods, sucks on his lip again. Slides his fingers out and lines himself up, fingers dancing on Steve’s thighs. He gently pushes in, and Steve wraps his legs tight around his waist, releasing a moan. "Good?" Bucky asks, holding still.

"Yeah, yes. _Move_ , please," Steve practically begs and Bucky does, leaning forward to press a kiss to Steve’s chest. Hips knocking together, the pressure and pleasure and building inside Steve, Steve feels — he feels too much. His heart is racing, his body is on fire, and Bucky is there, above him, with him, his. He grips the bed with it, with the feeling in his chest expanding and exploding, the elation he feels, weightless, celestial. Bucky makes him feel like he hasn’t in — well, ever. Bucky reminds him of New York, the attitude on the streets, the kindness of the same people, the sense of community, of belonging, of self. The courage that hides deep within him, despite all he’s trapped in, the humor he displays as opposed to his sadness, the loving nature in him that has endured, Steve can see. Steve sees it all, takes it all in, holds it close to him as Bucky fucks into him, works him with his other hand; keeps him there. Steve doesn’t know what’ll happen once they dock, leave the boat, but he knows he’ll never forget this, hopes to keep this with him forever. Hopes to keep Bucky.

His toes curl into the comforter, Bucky’s name falling off his lips, mind gone. Bucky continues on, like the unstoppable force he is for Steve, rocking against him until he’s finished. Collapses onto Steve’s chest, breathing heavily. Kisses his skin, and Steve runs a hand through his mussed hair.

"Steve," Bucky whispers, nuzzling into him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Steve presses his lips to his forehead, feels Bucky hum into his shoulder. "Fuck."

"We just did that, but we can go for round two if you like," Steve says, smirking proudly when Bucky pinches him.

"Have I told you that you’re a fucking punk?" Bucky laughs into his arm, warm.

"Plenty; even right before you told me to take my clothes off," Steve answers, turning his head so he can look at Bucky, teasing, testing. Bucky laughs again, lighting up everything inside of Steve, grabbing his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Steve turns on his side and wraps his arms around Bucky, hand flat against his back. Bucky tangles his legs with his, twirling his fingers with Steve’s, kissing him slow and soft. Sweet. Steve wouldn’t mind staying here forever.

Bucky breaks the kiss, settles his head back on Steve’s chest, tracing patterns onto his skin. Steve keeps his hand on Bucky’s waist, fingers just touching the swell of his ass. They lay there, tangled together, coming down, content. It’s quiet, just the sound of their breathing filling the room. Then, "Steve?" And there’s something to Bucky’s voice, something fiercely tentative, something hopeful, something important — Steve squeezes his side, prompts him to continue, eyes trained on his fair blue ones.

"Do you — I would — will you come with me?" he asks, and Steve immediately knows what he means, what he’s asking. His heart skips at it, actually, the weight of it taking him by surprise. He didn’t think — he didn’t even know Bucky wanted that, thought he was gonna be off on his own. But this is — Bucky fidgets against him, Steve obviously having taken too long to answer, and he can tell he’s growing uncomfortable.

"Yes," Steve says, swirling his index finger along Bucky’s back. Bucky’s head darts up, complete jubilation on his face, adorning every feature of him. Steve wants to make him look like that, all the time. "Yeah, we can go to my apartment in Brooklyn, it’ll be great. Everyone on Montague is nice 'n' pleasant. Got the Navy Yard and St. George’s Hotel, just a coupla minutes away. It’s… still not completely wonderful, but it is enough, and we’ll be in our own space. Well, with Sam."

The broad smile he gets in response warms him, electrifies him beyond belief. Bucky surges forward, presses his lips to his, wraps himself around Steve. "Let’s fuckin’ do it." Bucky kisses along Steve’s jaw, down his neck, across his collarbones, coming back up to meet his lips. Steve sighs into it, happily, cupping Bucky’s neck with his hand. He feels too elated, too lucky, too impossible. He holds Bucky tighter.

~~

Getting walked in on by Bucky’s fiancée was a pretty low point in Steve’s day, honestly. Though they were mostly dressed, the bed was still rumpled and Bucky’s hair was free of the oil that kept it down, and Steve’s suspenders and shoes lay askew across the room. Not to mention that Bucky’s hands were very much on Steve’s waist when the door opened, and him jumping back did nothing but further prove what they were up to. Steve tried to hide his face, hide his blush, but it was useless. Natasha crossed her arms and tapped her foot, a bemused smirk upon her face.

"You should be so fortunate that I walked in rather than your mother," is all she says, closing the door behind her. She struts over to the vanity, patting Bucky’s cheek on the way. His face screams petrified and shocked, but also, relaxed. Steve is a little confused when he goes over and helps her remove her jewelry, but he supposes that’s part of their routine. He tries not to let that strangle the feeling in his chest, because _honestly_ , of course they have a routine of sorts. Of course they have nuances to their relationship — whatever their relationship is. Steve can see it’s a rather exceptional one. A kind of romantic one that doesn’t involve attraction — Steve admires that. Wants to thank Natasha for being someone Bucky could trust. Even if she entered his life so late. "Steven," she calls, waving a sock of his that was lying on her vanity. "You might be needing this." She smiles warmly and funnily at him when he takes it, looking between him and Bucky — who is blushing for once. Steve chuckles and presses a kiss to his cheek. Bucky’s face relaxes and he helps remove the pins from Natasha’s hair. Steve finds the rest of his items that were on the floor, trying not to listen to their whispers.

"They should be returning soon," Natasha comments when her hair is free. She rises and helps Bucky fix his shirt, patting his cheek again as she does so. "Don’t worry, I haven’t seen you all evening."

Bucky smiles and grips her wrist, kisses her hand. "Thank you." He steps away from her and slips on his shoes, grabs Steve’s hand and leads him out of their suite.

"That was… awful," Bucky laughs, resting his elbows on the rails outside on the Bridge Deck.

"Nah, I don’t think so," Steve says, nudging him with his shoulder when he won’t remove his head from his hands. "Really. She seems…"

"She is," Bucky finishes, raising his head, a fond smile on his face. "I wasn’t lying when I said I love her."

Steve takes his hand, splays his fingers out along Bucky’s slightly smaller palm. Traces the lines there, travels up his fingers, pinches the skin. He slips his fingers in and out, different patterns and fittings, watches Bucky watch him, the slight curve of his lips, the smooth skin of his cheek, slant of his nose, slight furrow in his brow as he looks down. Steve locks their fingers together completely, squeezing tightly, watching Bucky smile. Something in Steve’s heart swells. "I’m glad you had her, even if not in the way you wanted, or needed."

Bucky squeezes his hand again, flips them over and swirls his fingers over Steve’s knuckles. He doesn’t speak, but Steve sees the way his throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The light of the moon spreads across his face, and Steve wonders how long they lay in bed. He wants to watch the sunset with Bucky. Maybe tomorrow. He reaches his hand out and cups the other side of Bucky’s cheek, turning his face in. His eyes shine with a new kind of glow, stars reflecting in them. His expression eases, lazy smile appearing. He leans his forehead in to knock against Steve’s affectionately, and Steve lets his lips graze the wrinkles there.

They stare at the stars for a while, catch the ripples of the water underneath, listen to the crash of it against the ship, the wind ripping through. A chill starts to settle in Steve’s bones, but when he presses his side against Bucky’s, his body heat is enough to warm him. Comfort him.

"James?"

Bucky detaches himself from Steve instantaneously, body going rigid as he turns around to greet a pack of women, one of whom Steve assumes is his mother. Oh, _wonderful_. "Mother, hello."

She eyes Steve with contempt — it’s that obvious as she rakes in his baggy clothes and frayed suspenders — denouncing his existence as she addresses her son. "We haven’t seen you all day," she says, with a kind of venom to her voice that can’t be displayed outright. The other women flank her as she speaks, cheekbones sharp and eyes dark.

"I apologize for leaving this morning," is all he says, putting on that First Class smile of his. Steve hates it.

"We’ll discuss that later," she responds, and her tone says it all, eyes flicking to Steve. _Let’s go now; leave that Steerage trash behind._ Bucky doesn’t get the chance to be obligatorily polite and introduce Steve, just steps away and follows behind as she and the others walk away with straight backs and upturned noses. Bucky turns his head back, mouths, "Sorry," to Steve, twisting his face into resentment and holding his hands crossed at his neck. Steve laughs, and decides to be corny, blowing a kiss at him. Bucky plays along, catches it and stuffs it in his pocket before scurrying off to endure whatever hell is waiting for him. Steve can only feel sad for him, but at least he has Steve to escape to, now. Steve won’t break that.

~~

**SUNDAY, APRIL 14TH, 1912**

Steve doesn’t see Bucky all afternoon.

 

** Bucky **

His mother keeps him plastered at her side all day. His arm looped through Natasha’s, her parasol blocking them from the heat of the sun. Her father in front, boasting grandly about the boat with his mother and the head engineer, Mr. Stark. While he is yammering about something concerning the complexity of the ship as they speak, hands flying wildly, chain for his pocket watch jangling, he seems more modest than it would appear. But Bucky thinks anyone next to the combination of Natasha’s father and his mother will seem incredibly humble.

Bucky is bored. Nat pinches his arm every now and then to keep him alert.

They walk along the Boat Deck, past the gymnasium Bucky never visited, past rows of lifeboats, stopping at the wheelhouse. There they meet up with Captain Fury, who speaks proudly of their heading and the weather, promising their early arrival in New York Tuesday night. That eases the weight in Bucky’s chest. Only two more days left. Two more days until he’s with Steve. Alone. Together. Happy.

Bucky’s not quite sure why exactly they are on this tour, if not so Mother has another reason to assert herself aggressively in the First Class. A reminder that she is still there and intends to be; it makes Bucky somber about leaving, disintegrating her dreams in such a way, but. It’s been all too much; she’ll be fine. She’ll learn there’s more to life than money, she’ll learn that’s not all there was to his father.

The Captain tells them about the machinery at work, Mr. Stark adding in information every so often. He talks of steering tactics and the communications between him and his Officers, the men below in the Engine Rooms, the men above in the Crow’s nest, Mr. Stark as well. The teamwork required to keep this ship running smoothly. Bucky thinks it’s a lot of work. A lot of responsibility.

A member of the crew steps in, calling for the Captain. "Sir, there’s another berg warning." He hands a piece of paper to Fury, who eyes it carefully, before nodding back to his crewman, dismissing him. "Not to worry," he assures, noticing the anxious expressions around him. "Very normal for this time of year, it’s most likely nothing." His eyes dart to the left when he finishes speaking, and Bucky looks curiously at him, but everyone else seems mollified. He excuses himself and bids them goodbye, returning to his quarters. Stark ushers them on, continuing the tour.

"The number of lifeboats seems rather minuscule compared to the capacity of the ship," Natasha notices, adjusting her parasol.

Stark turns to face Natasha, eyes squinting from the sun. "Yes, I built the davits to hold an extra row, but some felt it would compromise the beauty of the ship," he reveals, making a face of annoyance at the past conversation. "But, it’s rather alright, the ship is in excellent condition, and we’ll be in New York soon."

They walk to the edge of the Boat Deck, overlooking the Bridge Deck, overlooking the people milling about. Mother admonishes the Third Class, Natasha’s father stepping in to include his negative opinion as they look down at them. Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything, but eyes the pair rather disdainfully. Bucky looks for Steve. He tries to find him on the Poop Deck, but his eyesight is limited, and the sun’s glare is too bright. He does, however, spot Sam and Clint, talking on one of the benches. They don’t notice him, too engrossed in whatever tale they’re telling. It’s rather amusing to watch, actually, their interactions. How free and bright they are.

Nat tugs on his sleeve, dipping her head slightly downward. He does his best to follow her gaze, a little past Sam and Clint, and he sees Steve approaching them. Sandy hair disappearing in the sunlight, eyes askance, shoulders sagged. How is it possible that Bucky misses him this much, after just seeing him last night? He swallows the thought, keeps his eyes trained on Steve, begs him to look up.

He joins in with Sam and Clint, hands moving animatedly as he speaks with them. His shirt billows in the breeze, flutters against his skin. They laugh while Steve frowns, smacking hands against his chest. Sam pulls him in for a hug, and Bucky wants desperately to be down there with them. With Steve. With his arm draped over Bucky’s shoulder. He sighs and Natasha caresses his arm.

But then Steve looks up, sees Bucky, face lighting up. Bucky holds his eyes, tries to convey so many emotions, apologies, feelings. _I’m so sorry_ and _I hate this, I hate being here with them, not being with you_. But Nat’s pulling on his arm, taking him away, following behind their parents, leaving Steve. He turns his head back, sees the sadness on Steve’s face even though he displays a smile, and Bucky wants to run back to him. Hold him and hide for the remaining two days on the ship. But Steve’s out of Bucky’s sight before he can.

~~

Dinner is mindless, as usual. Chatter incessant, warping in Bucky’s mind to form an endless drone of noise. He stares blankly at his plate, smiling and nodding when addressed to, but otherwise, he goes unnoticed. Uncared for. Typical. The beads of his mother’s dress clatter next to him, a constant reminder to _stay here_. He wonders what Steve’s doing, wishes he didn’t have to wonder. Maybe he can fall asleep in Steve’s arms tonight instead of Natasha’s.

The lull begins to fade as the night goes on, the crowd around them leaving their finished meals, their own party withdrawing as well. Most of the women stay to continue their talks of scandal and whatever else they can privy. Eventually, all the men remember the brandy waiting for them in their exclusivity, and Natasha’s father attempts to drag Bucky along, but Natasha feigns weariness and asks for him to escort her back to the room. He’s surprised their parents haven’t caught on to this game, they do it quite often — both of them freeing themselves from more First Class nonsense. They excuse themselves and Nat leans on Bucky as they ascend the Staircase.

"That never gets old," Natasha laughs, swaying with Bucky as they walk. She pauses at their door and separates herself from him. She stares at him, gaze compassionate and refreshing, something he can always count on to alleviate the blandness of meals. Well, at least for a couple of more days. She slips her hand through his hair, tugs on the shell of his ear, pinches his earlobe between two fingers. "Go on," she says, dropping her hand.

He wraps his arms around her thin frame, hair catching on her hat. "I’m going to miss you." He breathes her in, collecting everything he can before it’s too late.

"Please," she dismisses, kissing his cheek as she pulls away. "You won’t remember a thing about this, about any of us. You’ll be off with your boy, living life far happier than you ever could here. We’ll be a distant memory."

He shakes his head. "No." Rests his hands on her shoulders. "No. Not you. You — you I could never forget. I wouldn’t want to."

She only smiles at him, presses her hand to his face one more time before turning away. She enters their suite, closing the door between herself and Bucky. He thinks whoever marries her will be the luckiest man on the planet. Far luckier than he.

He checks the Bridge Deck, looks for Steve in the darkness, searches from the bow to stern, but doesn’t see him. He heads down to his room, fatigued by the time he gets to G Deck. This Ship of Dreams sure is magnanimous. He’s passing the Saloon when he sees him, walking by himself in the corridor. Bucky decides on a whim — he runs down the hall and jumps on his back, sending them both falling to the floor.

Steve groans underneath him. "What the f — Bucky?" he questions when Bucky laughs loud in his ear.

Bucky kisses the back of his neck before climbing off. He helps Steve up, and is immediately pushed into the wall, Steve’s hands on his hips, lips smashing against his. Bucky flounders a little, under the new weight against him, but he kisses Steve back all the same. Runs his fingers through his hair, and sucks hard on his lip, pulling him closer. It’s amazing how much he missed this, amazing how quickly he became used to it, being with Steve, amazing how much he loves it, loves it all. Loves —

"Steve," he exhales, leaning his forehead on his. "I’m sorry about today, she — she wouldn’t let me out of her sight."

"It’s okay," Steve says, sliding his ridiculously large palms over Bucky’s arms. "I understand. And you’re here now." He smiles warm, looking at Bucky with wide and happy eyes, almost like he’s proud of him.

For what, Bucky doesn’t know, because he hasn’t done a single thing. Not anything like what Steve does for him. Steve puts the stars in his eyes, lights up everything inside of Bucky, electrifies his heart. He kisses him again, soft and sweet, lingering. "Hey, good news," he says, continues when Steve hums into his skin. "We’re set to dock Tuesday night. Tuesday we’ll be —"

Steve kisses him, a smile splaying across his lips. Bucky’s lips turn up as well, nose pressed with Steve’s. He runs his thumbs along Bucky’s cheeks, caresses his skin, flutters his eyelashes against his eyelids. "Hope you know I expect you to pay half the rent," Steve says, lips sly.

Bucky — Bucky actually hadn’t even thought about what leaving his family would mean. No more money at his disposal. Not like this, at least. He would have to work — he _could_ work. Has the option to. Can do something more than be pampered and discuss politics. Put these hands of his to use. Bucky — this feeling inside him is indescribable. He thinks it’s funny, being excited to work, when most would rather be in his position. If only they knew what it really entailed. He ponders, bites his lip and looks at Steve. "You said the Navy Yard was close by? They hiring at the docks?"

"Probably, almost always could use some extra hands. Buck, you know you don’t have to, you can work any —"

"I want to," Bucky interrupts, setting his eyes on Steve’s. Trying to convey this — this need. To do something, to contribute, to be helpful. To be able to choose. Sometimes that’s out of his Class perks. He swallows, reaffirming it with a nod, and Steve rests his hands on his cheeks again, sliding his rough thumbs against his skin.

"Okay. Yeah, I know a guy there, I’ll help ya out," he says, eyes soft and understanding. He leans in and chases Bucky’s mouth, grazing lightly. Chapped skin catching. Bucky holds him close, breathes him in again, places this in a section of his mind, of his heart. Unforgettable. "Come on, let’s get outta the hallway." Steve slips his hand into his, and leads him away from the wall he was pressed against, pulls him away.

Steve almost takes him to his room, considers for a moment before turning away and walking somewhere else. Goes up the stairs to D Deck, tightening his grip on Bucky’s hand. They stroll, leisurely, enjoying each other’s company, presence. Bucky knocks his shoulder against Steve as they walk along the length of the ship, Steve swinging their hands lightly. It’s wonderful, how free they can be past certain hours. It’s nearing eleven, barely anyone roaming the halls like they are, either asleep or partying downstairs. Bucky smiles, humming to himself, and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve lets his lips ghost over the top of Bucky’s head. They come into an empty space, a few chairs strewn about, some trash skittered around, but otherwise deserted. "How nice of the White Star Line to provide us with our own little closet of a gathering place," Steve remarks sardonically, gesturing to the space around them. Bucky can’t even appease him — it would be insulting to try and defend it. The room is awful. Airy and with smooth hardwood floors, but awful nonetheless. There’s no provision of entertainment, it seems more like a waiting room than anything.

But Steve shrugs, and pulls Bucky to the middle of it. Shuffles his feet and sways his body, keeping his eyes down. "Never did learn to dance, really," he says, sheepish, pulling Bucky close to his chest.

Bucky goes, willingly. He hasn’t danced in a while, at least not in a way that he’s enjoyed fully, or at all, really. But here with Steve, alone in this room, he thinks he just might. With one hand on the small of Steve’s back, fingers resting between suspenders, he keeps his other hand clamped with Steve’s, resting against his chest. "It’s not too hard," Bucky says, remembering all the cotillions of his life, the practice for the wedding. He clears his throat, "Most dancing is just a simple one-two step," Bucky continues, aligning his feet right. "Here," he begins, letting Steve adjust with him. "Left foot this way, step back, swing your right back, step in, step with your right again, slide over, step together and then back," he leads Steve, slowly, letting him get the hang of the box step. Watches his feet fumble a while before gliding smoothly with Bucky’s, and then they’re waltzing. Without music, without care. Steve starts to think too hard about it, because his feet slip up, stepping on Bucky’s every now and then. "It’s okay, yeah, just. Don’t think, okay? Just move. Move with me. Eyes on me." Steve trains his steel blue eyes on him, focusing with so much energy as Bucky counts the steps aloud, almost losing track himself. Stares back into Steve’s eyes with intensity, world going fuzzy around them as they move, and all of Bucky’s focus is on the man before him, the eyes before him, the nose, the mouth. The heart. He presses his hand there, feeling the vibrations of every beat hit his fingertips. Their dance goes lazy, both leaning in to share a kiss, bodies closer than the waltz allows. They sway there, spinning slowly in a circle, Steve’s cheek atop Bucky’s head as he keeps his head against his chest and hand on his heart, Steve’s warm arms around him, clasped at his back.

He thinks about their past few days on the ship, how much he was dreading the voyage before — before everything, really. He’s suddenly very glad his family is so atrocious, enough so that he escaped to the stern and the stars, met Steve. He supposes he has that to thank them for, but. Compared to everything else, he thinks he’d rather not try to give them anything, any more parts of him. This is his. And his only. Not something they can take from him, to use, to destroy. It's unfair, all the pressures that come with this position. All the sorrows that come with it. He realizes now, though, it accompanies the life of everyone. From Steve to Natasha, there are always things to uphold, unspoken rules to abide by. Standards to follow that were set long before they were born. It's not fair. Not fair at all. To take everything but the skin on their backs and make them stick to their Class, stick to their space. The norms, the expectations, the degradation. He hugs Steve tighter, sighing into his shirt. None of anything is fair.

"Hey, come with me," Bucky says, detaching himself from Steve. He feels the chill of air on his cheek, where it was pressed against the warmth of Steve's chest.

"Where are we going?" Steve asks, already walking with Bucky. Twines their fingers together and follows him up the steps.

"Someplace you deserve," is all he says in response, tightening his grip on Steve. He feels the same happen to his heart, squeezes so hard it could burst. He stops there in the corridor, turns and takes Steve's face in his hands and presses his lips with his. Kisses him hard, melding with him for a moment. Steve cups his elbow and falls into him, lips cool. He pulls back, running his thumb along Steve's cheek. Steve smiles up at him, a slow half turn of his mouth before Bucky goes back to leading him up the stairs, hand tight in his.

They walk the Bridge Deck, straight to the stairs that lead past the Promenade Deck and up to the Boat Deck, and then Steve starts to drag his feet.

"No, Bucky, _no_ ," Steve protests, trying to stop him from climbing the ladder. "I wasn't allowed in the pool, and I'm definitely not allowed here. What if someone sees — I'm —"

"A person," Bucky interrupts. "A person. With rights and value. You don't deserve to be crammed down in the lowest deck of the boat while those with immorality and trust funds get to roam this deck, show off their waistcoats and day dresses. No. This is a ship. For people. You are a person and you're allowed wherever the fuck you want to go. No one should be telling you this Deck is not for you. You paid your way on board, you worked your butt off drawin' to get here, to go home; you paid your way to enjoy every part of _Titanic_. So, c'mon." Bucky leaps up the ladder, extending his arm out to Steve. "They've taken enough from you."

Steve stares at him, face blank for a moment too long, not taking Bucky's hand. His eyebrows rise and his dimple appears, cheeks rounding out and he's glowing with something Bucky's never seen. He slips his hand into his, letting himself be pulled up. Allowing himself this. As soon as his two feet are steady on the same level as Bucky's, he locks his hands on his waist and kisses him. "You — you're far too good for what they put you through, James Barnes."

Bucky shakes his head, hair whispering against Steve's skin. "No, no. That's — that's definitely you. You're the most kindhearted, strong — you're the best person I know."

"I can't take that as too much of a compliment because you're surrounded by a lot of shitty people," Steve says, mouth breaking into a smile where it's pressed against Bucky's forehead.

"Shut up, punk." And regardless of that, he still continues. Wants Steve to know it, to believe it. Because it's true. And someone like him can't go around thinking he's anything less than what he is, which is extraordinary. Bucky doesn't want him listening to the harsh voices of the world, wants him to know everything he is; wants him to shine through the grime, the nastiest parts of society. Because he does that already. Because he provides a light for Bucky. A beacon. "Yes you can. Please. I mean it. I really do." Bucky wraps his arms around him, pressing his face into his shirt. He _has_ to know.

Steve runs his hands through Bucky's hair, holding tight, pressing him farther in. He ghosts his lips over his hairline, dropping kisses along his head. Takes his face in his hands and makes Bucky look up at him. "I meant it, too. You may not wanna hear it Buck, but you're the best guy I know, too."

Bucky chokes a little, heat pricking the back of his eyes. He leans up to kiss Steve lightly, chaste. "Don't tell Sam you said that," he teases, pulling back. Sees the stars dance in Steve's eyes. "Come on, I brought you here for a reason, didn't I?"

Steve ducks his head and continues onto the deck, Bucky at his side. "It's not really that special," Steve assesses, shrugging when they get to the railing overlooking the Poop Deck. Bucky was here only hours ago with his family. In a different place, a different state of mind.

"That's what I'm sayin'," Bucky laughs, gesturing wide. The only difference is that it's the top tier of the ship, and that says enough in itself that Bucky doesn't have to comment on it. "'S got a nice view, though," he adds, and Steve nods, agreeing. He turns his eyes up to the night sky, neck pale and exposed, long, skin taut against the veins. Bucky slips his hand back there, squeezing lightly, feeling Steve's vertebrae against his hand. Steve's skin is cold, Bucky's probably is as well, but he rubs his palm against his nape anyways, if not for something to do, touch.

He leans up and traces Steve's earlobe with his lips, grazing. The muscles in Steve's neck tighten against Bucky's hand, and he nips his skin with his teeth now. Kisses his way along Steve's jaw, peppering his cheek, just ghosting the side of his mouth. Steve's lips part, head turning towards Bucky, hand slipping to his waist.

The ear splitting shriek that cuts through the silent air causes Steve's nose to knock into Bucky's cheekbone, the rumbling of the deck below them making them both lose their footing and grip the railings beside them, Bucky's hand still tight around Steve's neck, Steve's fingers digging into his side.

"What the fuck?"

Steve rushes to the other side of the Deck, peering over before giving up and heading down another level. Bucky follows, hearing the clamor of the few people that are out at this time of night. They all peer over the starboard side, as do Steve and Bucky, but it’s too dark to tell what they’re looking at, the water rippling curiously stronger than usual. Bucky figures they lost a propeller blade or something similar, but even he knows that’s far fetched.

"Buck." Steve knocks against his shoulder, pointing towards the bow. Some people are gathered around there, a clump of something at their feet. As they get closer, Bucky’s heart rate quickens — is that — what would ice be doing on the —

"Oh, fuck," he exhales, backing up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He puts a hand at his forehead, tugs at the roots of his hair. He remembers the conversation Fury was having with one of his crewmen. _Shit_. Steve looks worriedly at him, setting his large hands on Bucky’s shoulders, eyebrows knitted. "That’s — ice. An iceberg. We hit an iceberg. The — Captain Fury got a warning earlier, when we were in the Wheelhouse. He — shit, Steve."

He sees the realization dawn on Steve’s face, settling over his features, mouth going slack. He whips his head back around to where they’re now playing some sort of game with the chunks of ice, laughing. Naïvely. Bucky shakes his head, and Steve looks back, swallowing hard. "Well, it’s probably okay, right? The ship is — it can’t be too bad."

"Steve, you and I both heard that awful noise. It sounded bad to me," Bucky says, looking back over the side of the boat. From here he can see the scratches against the black finish of the ship, the white marks left by the ice. He thinks he sees something else, peers farther and squints his eyes, if only it were a little lighter outside —

"Bucky," Steve says, pulling him back by the arm. "Let’s just — we’ll wait and see if it’s something to worry about, okay? Please." He runs a hand over Bucky’s hair, eyes pleading, and Bucky can see the fear in his eyes. Can see the way his body is taut, stress lining every feature at the possibility of this being catastrophic. Can see the bravery Steve is trying to display. "Let’s just sit tight for now. There’s no need to tear ourselves up about it if it turns out to be nothing." Can see the way he’s trying to absolve Bucky of his negative thinking, take him away from that. Distract him. Bucky can see Steve knows that he’s right.

But Bucky nods anyways, kisses him quick on the lips. He figures now if there are any people around, any disapproving looks, they’ll have more important things on their minds than the relationship of two men; they’ll have their lives to be worrying about.

 

** Steve **

Steve keeps his grip on Bucky tight; doesn’t let go as they weave through the ship, trying to gather some information. He’s probably hurting his hand, but Bucky doesn’t say anything, just keeps his fingers locked with his. Steve can feel the clammy sweat collecting between them, the worry and anxiety propelling his feet forward.

More people are pouring out onto the decks, curious as to what the vibrating and shaking was, the noise, the commotion. He can hear the click of the shoes of the crewmen fussing about around them, and he _knows_. Knows that they won’t all be making it back to New York.

"Steve," Bucky says from behind him, voice strained. His eyes are trained on the Captain and whom Steve thinks is Mr. Stark, surrounded by more crewmembers and men with fear written all over their faces. They pay the pair no mind as they walk in their pack, harried and frantic, talking over one another. Steve catches the words "hit," "underwater," and "down." He doesn’t need to be skilled with maritime speak to know what that means.

Bucky’s other hand slips overtop his, squeezing. Steve can feel his rapid pulse against his own wrist. "Nat. I have to tell Nat. I —"

Steve nods, trying to remove the dryness from his throat so he can speak. He has to find Sam. And Clint. His best friend is probably blinking wearily, wondering about the noise — maybe he wasn’t asleep. Probably not, it was barely midnight. Steve — he hopes he wasn’t in his quarters. Hopes Sam could come up deck — Steve knows how the world works, knows he wouldn’t be allowed up before the First Class were assured safety. He also knows there’s no way in hell he would ever leave Sam down there, behind. And he knows Sam won’t go down without a fight. He knows their Brooklyn apartment will stay unattended, until the landlord loses patience and knocks down the door for someone else to occupy their small space. Steve wonders if they’ll find the colored pencils under the floorboards.

He — they were so close. New York with Bucky, just over a day away. _Maybe_ — he coughs, chokes. He can’t be foolish enough to think that there’s a reserved seat for him in a lifeboat. For Bucky, yes, but not — he stops. His heart has decided before his brain, but it pains him to think about it. He pulls Bucky to him, kissing his forehead. "Yeah, let’s — come on."

They find Natasha roaming the halls when they get to B Deck, a slight frown on her face. "Nat!" Bucky yells when he sees her, detaching from Steve and throwing his arms around her.

"Please tell me what I’m thinking isn’t true," she says with her arms tight around him as well. She looks to Steve then, who can’t even try to hide what he’s thinking, feeling. He’s always been a bad liar anyways. Natasha’s eyes glaze with recognition, head turns down into Bucky’s neck. She pulls away from him, eyes sad, as they should be.

"You’ve always been too smart for your own good," Bucky says and she raises her hand and fixes a loose strand on his head. Smiles small and glances back to Steve.

"There’s no chance I can get you into a boat with me, is there?" she says to Bucky, hand on his arm.

"Not unless our parents concede to my feelings for Steve. Which —" he turns back to Steve, chuckles bitterly and reaches out his hand. Steve takes it, pulls himself close to Bucky, right where they are, middle of the First Class hallway. He doesn’t care.

"You do remember what Stark said about the boats, don’t you?" Natasha questions, eyebrow raised slightly and head tilted. She looks exhausted, when Steve takes her in. He suddenly wishes she were able to come with them — with Bucky — as well. But now —

Bucky’s hand twitches in Steve’s. He can feel the tenseness in Bucky’s back radiating onto him. "Yes," he answers, voice gravelly. It sounded like the scrape of ice on iron.

"What is it?" Steve asks, looking between them.

"There are barely enough boats for h — half the people aboard," Bucky says, not meeting Steve’s eye. Tightens his grip in his hand, though. "Nat, please —"

But she just shakes her head, mind already made, already gone. "I need to go warn my father. Goodbye, Bucky." She leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek, soft, lingering. Steve sees tears glistening her eyes but doesn’t think for a moment she’ll let them fall. And then she’s gone. And Bucky did let his fall, a tear streaking down his right cheek as he looks after where she went. Steve doesn’t — how do you look at someone, say goodbye, knowing it’s the last time you’ll ever see them again? Knowing death is in the frozen waves below.

Steve presses his lips to the back of Bucky’s neck, the skin warm and veins throbbing. He reaches a hand up to wipe the tear away, Bucky sighing into his hand. He kisses Steve’s palm, pushes his face into it, eyes closed. Processing what just happened. Dealing with the bitter farewell.

"Sam," Steve whispers, not wanting to have to face the same fate with him.

Bucky nods, curling himself into Steve just for a moment, holding tight just long enough for Steve to place a kiss amidst brunette hair, pulling back to grab his hand and rush alongside him to scour the decks for his friend.

 

**MONDAY, APRIL 15TH, 1912**

The panic hasn’t set in yet. The weight of what’s happening hasn’t hit the passengers. The knowledge that this ship is in fact sinkable hasn’t crushed their resolve yet, filled them with fear. There’s only confusion right now, no real worry until they hear it with their own ears, see it with their own eyes.

"Steve!"

He whips his head around, wrenching Bucky with him. Sam is there, with Clint, running from the elevators. Steve exhales, " _Thank God_ ," and meets Sam halfway. His arms fit around his shoulders like they always do, right back in that space that means home. Sam has always been there, his touch familiar — strong like when Steve needed it, when he was going to break; soft like after a long day of work and not enough money; warm like the way he knows Steve too well, inside out, even when he tries to hide it. Steve — he won’t let this be the end.

"We saw it — the iceberg," Clint breathes out, worry written over his face, the slouch in his shoulders. "We were tryin’ for a swim, since it was so easy for you to —" Steve finds Bucky’s hand — "'Course with our luck we got stopped by the guy at the elevator. Figures. While I was yellin' at him it —"

"He thought it was an earthquake," Sam cuts in, small smile on his face. "On a _boat_. Honestly."

Bucky laughs into Steve’s shoulder at that, and Clint glares at them all. "Fuck all of you — it was the first thing to pop in my head. And — wait a minute." He stops, eyes catching on Bucky and Steve’s joined hands. Steve feels Bucky instantly square his shoulders, gripping his hand tighter; Steve doesn’t flinch, waits, eyes hard. But then Clint smiles, big and broad. "I fucking knew it! Sam tried to tell me I was outta my mind, but I — oh, you son of a bitch," he turns to Sam, smacking him in the chest. "You were playin’ me," he accuses.

Sam holds his hands up. "Wasn’t my place to say anything." Clint clicks his tongue, dissenting, unpleased with all of them. Steve relaxes — the moment having taken a turn he was not expecting. And he’s so thankful to have a friend like Sam. He reaches a hand out to his shoulder, squeezes his thanks. "And now is really not the time," Sam adds, gesturing around them.

Clint nods. "Right. Where was I — oh! So, anyway, we look out the window and see the iceberg, can hear it scraping across the side of the ship. It was the worst noise I’ve ever heard in my life — worse than Mrs. Jenkins’ nails on the chalkboard."

"I grabbed Clint and got into the elevator, while the attendant was still starin’ out the window," Sam says, standing between them. "Figured you’d be up here somewhere so I could tell you — but my guess is you already knew."

"There aren’t enough lifeboats," Steve blurts, because he did already know, knows more than he wants to, knows the gravity of everything that’s happening around them. He watches as Sam and Clint’s faces fall slack.

"W — wait. You’re saying —" Clint starts, breaths short.

"Yes," Bucky answers, stepping from where he was mostly behind Steve. "Heard Fury and Stark talking. She’s going down."

"Along with half her passengers," Sam adds, eyes on the floor. "Including us." He looks up at Steve then, eyes hard. Steve swallows.

"No, no — don’t," Bucky starts, pulse fast against Steve. Chest rising and falling. Steve chews his lip. "Don’t say that. You — we’re all gonna get on a boat. We’re gonna be fine. Right, Steve?" Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at him. Keeps his eyes on Sam and Clint, the people who know just as well as he does that there isn’t anything more than a slim chance that they’ll make it to a boat. That they’ll get to live over the thousands of people on board with more money, higher status. "Steve. Steve, c’mon. Steve —" Bucky tugs on his hand, and he turns to him, looks him true in his eyes. He’ll never see them compared to this sun-kissed ocean they sailed on again. "No. _No_. Steve, don’t you dare try and be a hero on me. We — we can make it."

Steve sighs and cups a hand over Bucky’s face, hand over his ear, fingers in his hair. "Bucky…"

Then it starts. The commotion rises in volume. Men in white uniforms telling everyone to get their lifebelts on. Trying to keep it subdued, reduced to precaution only. But they all know it’s not — it’s much more. Everyone else is too trapped in the glory of the Ship of Dreams to think it could be real, could be happening to them.

Someone knocks into Bucky, pushing him against Steve. He slides his arms around Steve’s waist, and shakes his head against his chest. Steve lets his lips graze his head, then pulls back. "You should go. Now. While there’s seats left. Get your lifebelt." Steve gnaws at his lip now, heat pricking the back of his eyes. They were _so close_.

Bucky grips his arms hard, nails digging through his shirt. Shakes his head harder, eyelashes clumping together from where the tears have collected. " _No_. No, not without you. Steve, I’m not — I can’t —"

"Yes, you can," Steve whispers, feeling his way to the back of Bucky’s neck. "You have to — I’ll be alright."

"Alright? You’ll be dead!" And his voice cracks on that, and he turns to Sam and Clint for help, but they won’t give it to him. They _know_. "No," he repeats, crossing his arms now, jaw tight and chin jutted.

"Bucky." It already hurts Steve enough to have to say this, repeating it isn’t any better. "Bucky, don’t fight me on this. You have to —"

"No, Steve! Either we’re getting on a boat together or not at all. I’m not — I’m not gonna walk away and let you die."

And Steve — he sees the fierceness in his eyes, the determination in his stance. He knew he lost the second he crossed his arms; knew he lost the second he met Bucky Barnes, honestly. He — of course he would rather Bucky live, than himself. Of course he doesn’t want Bucky to throw away his chance at a happy life when he could just leave Steve behind. Live without him. Steve then realizes — Bucky’s life was never happy. Wasn’t until — he chokes on air. _You make me happy, Steve._ He clears his throat, tries to settle his heart. Tries not to think about it. How Bucky would rather die with Steve than leave him behind. How he didn’t have anything worth it enough in his life before. How Steve — how he gives him that. Steve didn’t know he could do that. Be that for someone. He thinks if he could be that for anyone, he’s glad it’s for Bucky. Bucky, who deserves so much more than what he’s got.

He does deserve more. Deserves more than hiding and being told what to do and being helpless — only for it all to end in the middle of the Atlantic. He deserves happiness. Steve won’t — he has to make sure he gets that. Needs him to get to a boat. Needs to be on that boat with him.

He nods hard, feels his throat cracking in wheezy whispers, leans down and kisses Bucky instead. Threads his fingers through his short hair, holds him against him and keeps with his mouth, lips tangled together. He doesn’t really think the _I love you_ needs to be said, on either of their parts. Can feel it in the way Bucky locks his lips with his, slides his hands over Steve’s back; felt it in the _not without you_. Felt it in every moment they’ve spent together on this ship.

"Okay," he exhales into Bucky’s mouth. "Both of us or none of us."

"Uh, we exist, too," Clint interjects, unimpressed and unbothered. "How about all of us or none of us," he grumbles. "Assholes."

They can only laugh at that, Steve and Bucky managing a "Sorry," as they separate, Sam shaking his head at all of them. He knew he wouldn’t be left behind. Steve would never.

"Well, since I have the feeling none of us are tryin’ to die, and only one of us can make it into a lifeboat —" Sam starts as Bucky grabs Steve’s hand again. "What’s next?"

 

** Bucky **

"I think I have an idea," he says, chest still tight, heart still numb. "Come with me." He rushes past Sam and Clint, Steve trailing behind him. He’s not going to let go of him. Not after — well, he trusts Steve of course, he just can’t decide if he trusts him to stay with Bucky over his other options. But that’s the _thing_. Bucky doesn’t have any other options, because there’s only one with Steve in it. It’s — the world is really cruel, he realizes. These thousands of people on board have no idea what their fate is; the next few hours of their lives could be their last. They probably have family to return to, back in New York, things to do. But.

And he — he just _got_ Steve. He _just_ found a reason to smile. Smile for real, not the one he plasters on for the dinner parties and to appease his mother. Not the one reserved for Nat. That’s different. It’s not — it’s not _love_. Not the kind he feels for Steve, the only person he’s ever felt this for. He’s not sure if he would mind dying here. Because he got his shot at happiness, he got his relief, he got his chance. If only for a while. But, he can’t let Steve go off without him. He won’t give that up. He _just_ got him. And it’s not fair, not fair at all. Wouldn’t be fair for Steve, to get this opportunity on this ship, to have worked so hard for this, to go home, and not be able to. Wouldn’t be fair, that he’s had enough troubles in his life, some that Sam couldn’t always help, and Bucky wouldn’t be there. Wouldn’t be there to lessen the weight in his chest when he sits alone in his apartment, seeing the affection between others when he has no one to give it to — no one he’s _allowed_ to. Bucky could be there. Right there with him behind that curtain to show him that he does, he is allowed this. He is worth it, deserves it.

He’s _not_ letting Steve out of his sight until they’re both in New York.

"What’s this plan of yours, Barnes?" Sam asks from behind him, all of them ignoring the clamor around them, the franticness of the passengers and crew around them as it becomes real to them. All very real that they’re about to be captured by the freezing water, nothing to keep them safe, except maybe their money, but Bucky has a feeling that influence won’t stretch very far tonight.

But, he needs it to, just for a minute, just so he can get Steve safe. All of them safe. "You’ll see," he says, and God, he hopes it works. Hopes no one but Natasha is in his quarters now, but he knows that’s probably a long shot. Mother was definitely asleep and who knows what her father was doing. It seems the residents are being ushered to a different part of the ship, though, so maybe. _Maybe_.

"Bucky," Steve starts when his door is in sight. He can tell from the tone of his voice he knows what Bucky’s thinking. "I don’t know if —"

"It will," Bucky interrupts. It _has_ to. "Come on." He squeezes Steve’s hand probably harder than necessary, but he doesn’t care. Steve doesn’t protest either. Just squeezes back.

They approach the door, and Bucky presses his ear to the door, listening for voices. He knows his Mother will be asking an incessant amount of questions about the lifebelts and why and what, Nat’s father will be trying to insist it isn’t necessary, and Nat will be sitting silently, her lifebelt already on. He hears no such noises. Pushes open the door and peers inside, Steve pressed against his back.

"They probably already went with everyone else," Steve says in his ear, breath warm.

Bucky nods against his chin. Hopefully. He supposes he should feel something, leaving his mother behind, not saying goodbye. And he does, but. He wonders if it really is so different, from when he was going to depart the ship with Steve and never see her again, but to _know_ she was alive; now he doesn’t know, not for certain anyway. There’s a wrenching stab in his chest at that, but he pushes past it. He has to. For Steve. For himself. For Sam and Clint.

He walks in, taking Steve with him. Sweeps his eyes across the room, a glass of brandy left on the mantle, Mother’s bedroom door cracked, his and Nat’s room empty. No one is here.

Sam whistles low when he walks in. "Jesus, this room alone is bigger than our whole apartment."

"That’s what I said," Steve agrees, eyeing the room again. Bucky still thinks it’s tacky and unnecessary. Clint wanders, pressing his face up close to almost every piece of decoration in his sight. The crash Bucky hears as he searches Nat’s father’s room is inevitable, hears the berating of Clint and him giving a small "whoops" in return. Bucky doesn’t even care. Wouldn’t mind if they destroyed every expensive thing in this room, honestly.

"The ship is sinking, I don’t think one tiny vase shattered on the floor is going to make any difference," Clint says indignantly. Bucky can practically see the derision on Sam’s face.

He sifts through the wardrobe, hands grabbing shirts and pants and coats and shoes, tosses them back into the common space. He rushes out and into his own room, grabs any clothes of his that are left and bundles them in his arms as he goes back out to the three men in front of him. "Okay," he sighs. Clint is eyeing the clothes like he’s crazy, mad for thinking this can work, and maybe he is. But he doesn’t care; needs anything to work. Sam shares a look with Steve, who just shrugs, shoulders sagging. "Steve, those there are for you, you fuckin’ giant."

"Hey," Steve objects, bending down to pick up the clothes anyways. "Jerk." There’s a smile on his face, though, and Bucky mirrors it. Sam rolls his eyes at them.

"And here," Bucky says, thrusting the pile in his arms at Sam and Clint. "I grabbed whatever I could. We have to — we should hurry. We gotta get to a boat." _I am not letting Steve Rogers sink to the bottom of the Atlantic._

The clothes fit them all well, as it turns out. The shoulders are snug, a little too snug on Steve, but he doubts that’s what will give him away. Honestly, he wouldn’t be able to tell these weren’t their clothes, unless he really tried. And no one cares enough to look at the seams on the coats in great detail. He squirts some oil into his palms and runs it through each of their heads of hair, slicking them back, flattening any awry strands as best as he can.

"How d’ we look?" Clint asks, straightening his vest before gesturing wide. He looks at his two friends next to him, nodding slightly. "Look like we can have our tea and bread on the Promenade Deck? Look like members of high society?"

"Yes, you all look very handsome," Bucky says quickly, tossing the oil back into his room. He belatedly realizes none of them have lifebelts, but tries not to think about it. They'll be fine. He hopes. "Now, come on." He ushers them towards the door, falling in step with Steve.

"Bucky." Steve grabs his hand, hesitating his steps. They don’t stop though, still shuffling behind Sam and Clint through B Deck. He turns to Steve and sees something in his eyes he really wants to stop seeing, especially now when all he wants to do is get him on a boat. "Don’t you — I mean, is it wrong? To do this, so we can get a boat? What if someone else —" He stops, clears his throat and sets his face, but Bucky sees his bottom lip quiver. "What if someone else’s life could be saved, if we didn’t —"

"Hey, hey," Bucky stops him and pulls him aside. He tucks Steve’s head down against his, shaky breath fanning over his face. "I am _not_ going to lose you here. Not today. Not — look, I know what we’re doing is probably really shitty. Probably screwin’ someone else over. But —" _They don’t mean to me what you mean. They aren’t you. I don’t love them_. But he can’t say that out loud, not with a clear conscience. Nothing about anything right now is clear, except Steve. And he can’t lose that, lose him. "It’s every man for himself. And soon it’s going to fall apart, and it will be hell, and I need you there —"

"Stop," Steve says, shaking his head lightly. Bucky sees wetness around his eyes, the clear blue surrounded by red. He leans in farther, circles the tip of Bucky’s nose with his own, leans down and kisses him. "Okay." Rubs his thumbs along Bucky’s cheeks. "Okay."

Bucky nods and kisses him again. "Come on, let’s catch up." For a fleeting moment, he thinks how nice it is, that he can kiss Steve, be this close to him in the middle of the corridor. Even if only because there's too much panic around them for the derision, disgust. If only people didn't care on a regular basis, if they just let Steve and Bucky and anyone else be. Be happy. Be themselves just as every other member of society gets to be. But Bucky knows they're not so lucky, it's all around him, beginning its slow descent to the ocean floor.

They make it to the Boat Deck just behind Sam and Clint. They all pretend Steve and Bucky didn't stay behind for a moment.

It's hectic up here, people running around, screams and clamor, crewmen trying to keep order and get passengers on boats.

"Women and children _only_! Get back!"

Bucky recognizes the man as the second officer, waving frantically at the wave of men swamping him and the two other crewmen around him, on either side of a lifeboat. The boat looked bigger before, when it was just decoration.

"Shit," Clint curses. "Don't suppose you boys wanna go back down and pull on some day dresses, do ya?"

Bucky sweeps his eyes around, hand clamped in Steve's, their backs against their friends, constantly knocking into one another as people move for their lives. He hadn't even — of course they would want to save the women and children first. That eases something in his chest — Natasha will be alright. She's probably already on a boat. There's one missing from this side. He sees people swarming the boats towards the bow, children crying, adults’ faces wrapped in panic. Sees children being lifted into boats, separated from their fathers and brothers, sisters and wives departing their loved ones for the sake of their own lives. Bucky — he can't do that. Can't let Steve do that. Can't leave him.

He readjusts his hand in his and cranes his neck the other way. There are boats down at the stern he remembers, but there's still no guarantee that they'll be allowed on.

" _Women and children only!_ "

Steve's palm is hot in his. Bucky's heart is racing too fast. He can feel the tension between Sam and Clint. The fear that accompanies them all. Bucky won't let it take over. He's stronger than that.

A man about their age yells for his companion. "Charlie! Charlie, come on. They're letting men on boats on the other side." And then he's grabbing him by the arm and they're gone, racing off to the starboard side.

"Remind me to start going to church again," Clint yells as they whip around and head behind the two men. "Thank fucking Christ."

"'M pretty sure they don't allow that kind of talk in church," Steve replies, using his arm to push off some wall, propelling them forward.

Bucky smiles — amazed he can do such a thing at a time like this. Amazed he met Steve. Amazed that they might actually make it, their luck is changing, changing into the shape of a lifeboat waiting for them on the other side.

"There!" Sam points down the ship, where less of a crowd has gathered around the lifeboats there. A few crewmen beckoning and gathering any women in their sight. Bucky fears it might be their only chance. They all run towards the stern, their group of men, and hope.

There are two boats there, one nearly packed full of women and children, some men trying to make it on board. The other is nearly empty, about five women in and a few more making their way. Some small children clutching to their mothers and fathers.

"They’re not gonna let us all in one boat," Steve says, and Bucky instinctively tugs him a step away. He’s not separating himself from him, not a chance.

"We’ll go for this one," Sam says, pointing to the boat nearest them and pulling Clint along.

"Sam…" Steve starts, staring at his friend. His throat bobs.

"Don’t do that to me, Rogers. I’ll be seein’ you soon." He points at Steve, almost warningly, if it wasn’t for his own eyes welling, voice catching.

Steve nods and lets Sam and Clint step away. He sets his back straighter. "Come on, Buck." And they go for the second boat, all the women on board now; some fathers are being let on, and Bucky yanks Steve ahead, pushing in front of others. They _have_ to make it. There’s a surge of people making their way down here, and Bucky cannot let them — he wants to vomit. He feels awful. Steve is warm against him, the air too cold.

Bucky places himself behind some man with a top hat and a lifebelt, keeps Steve right at his side. The deck rumbles below his feet as crowds gather, as people run, as frenzy sets in. If he listens closely enough he can almost hear the notes of a song, string instruments playing in the night. He wants to laugh at how typical it is. How First Class. A lame attempt to distract, to pull them away from the reality of their lives, to make them forget. Bucky doesn’t think anyone who survives this will be forgetting it.

"Any more women and children?" the crewman in front of them asks, craning his neck. Bucky tries not to look, pretends they’re all on the boat, eyes the seats available for him and Steve.

"Please," he prays; begs, once he realizes he said that out loud. The crewman turns to him, and he hides his and Steve’s joined hands behind his coat, not wanting to take any chances. He sees the resolve in the man break, watches as his eyes go soft.

"Yes, alright," he says, allowing them forward.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, pushes Steve in front of him. He holds him steady as he gets in the boat, hands shaking near violently. Steve turns and helps him on, both trying to keep their balance on the ascended boat. Bucky wants to cry when his shoes hit the wood, when he can feel Steve’s chest against his shoulder. They made it. The world goes numb for a moment, just him and Steve in this boat. He can’t feel the cold, the wind doesn’t bite at his skin, he can’t hear the screams.

Then Steve is moving, assisting others on board, taking a small child that wasn’t there before. Bucky helps his mother in, one hand in hers and the other on her waist. She takes her son and surrounds herself with the other women on board, cocooning herself and her child in their body heat. A few more men make their way on board before the crewman stops it. Bucky thinks there’s still plenty of space.

Then, "Clint!"

They both turn wildly in their seats to where Sam is, where his boat is beginning to be lowered to sea. Bucky doesn’t see Clint.

"CLINT!" Sam screeches, trying to stand up, only to be shoved down by the others on board. "No! Go back up! Clint!"

Bucky turns his eyes up, sees Clint standing at the edge of the ship, looking down over the railing. "No. No, no, no."

"No!" Steve yells, and Bucky clutches at his arm. "Clint! What are you doing?!"

Clint turns to them just as their boat begins to descend. He doesn’t say anything, just shrugs his shoulders and waves. Goodbye. And then he turns, leaves, out of sight.

"No! Clint!" Sam still yells, the woman next to him cradling her baby close to her chest.

"He let her get on," Bucky notices, heart sinking with their boat. Ship. Doesn’t really matter at this point. Everything is going down. "That woman and her baby. He let her have his seat."

Steve doesn’t say anything, eyes still fixed on where Clint once was. Where there’s now a herd of people trying to find their way to safety. Bucky feels a tear drop onto his hand, and doesn’t know who it belongs to. Doesn’t check. Just keeps a tight hold on Steve. Wishes Sam weren’t alone. His eyes stay on the railing, the panic surrounding it. It gets quieter, the farther they drift down, and then they’ll be drifting away. And soon they won’t be able to hear anyone at all.

 

** Steve **

The boat bobs in the water, rocking back and forth in the small waves created from the shuddering of everyone aboard the craft, the ripples from the oars. They paddle backwards, floating effortlessly, which seems cruel, given the sight before them. The cold wind stings his skin, his eyes. Mixes with the tears that have fallen onto his cheeks, freezing lines along his face.

His eyes stare at the vessel in front of him, feeling detached, empty, cold. He can see the marks left by the ice, the scrapes; the metal pulled away from itself. His heart aches, looking at it, thinking about it. All the lives soon to be lost. The horror in front of him, a tragedy he can’t help. He feels — he hates it, sitting here, watching from relative safety, not being able to do anything. He knows he can’t stop the ship from going down, can’t fix anything really, but. He at least sheds tears for those in peril, those fallen, lost. It doesn’t make him feel any different, any better.

He can’t even look at Sam. Sam, who is so far away, by himself. A woman next to him tries to comfort him while she holds her baby, but — that should be Clint. Clint should be sitting there, and Sam wouldn’t need any comfort. There wouldn’t be a hole ripping its way through Steve’s chest. Sam shouldn’t be — he deserves better, doesn’t deserve to be alone. Steve wants to jump out of this boat and swim to him, press his body against his and wrap his arms around him like he did for Steve so many times. He — he wants Clint to be on that boat with him. But, he thinks if there were any way to go, it would be that. Put someone else’s life before your own, save them instead of yourself. Provide, be considerate, selfless. If Sam were Bucky and Steve were Clint, he doesn’t think he’d be able to — he _knows_ he wouldn’t be able to. He wouldn’t be able to leave Bucky behind, even after his great speech about it. After everything, after having the lifeboat in his reach, Bucky right there, he couldn’t. But that’s the difference, he supposes. Clint knows Sam will be alright without him there. Steve knows Bucky would be alright — eventually. But _Bucky_ doesn’t know Bucky would be alright. Steve wouldn’t be able to send him off like that, without closure. He — Bucky’s been through enough. And Sam has him and Steve. Clint knows that.

Bucky is there next to him, a constant presence against his arm as they drift backwards. Farther away from the chaos. Into the calm, the quiet. The empty ocean. It seems to get colder the more they back away, the longer they linger. Helpless. Bucky shivers against him, hand still tight in his, wrapped in the folds of his coat. This suit Steve is in feels too small, constricting. Wrong. The collar digs into his neck, the shoulder pads pulling against his sleeve, waistline pressing hard into his hips, shoes numbing his toes. He wants them off, he wants to be back in his suspenders, in his —

He gasps, loud and sudden. His chest starts heaving and he has difficulty breathing.

"Steve?" Bucky wonders, worry in his voice. His hand finds its way to the back of Steve’s neck, spreading some warmth, comfort. "Stevie, what’s — it’s okay, we’ll be alright." But Steve starts shaking his head, teeth clamping down on his lip. "Steve, what —"

"My drawings," he heaves out. Bucky’s hand squeezes his nape. "My —" He stops, voice giving out, lip trembling. It feels stupid, to cry over a book of sketches. But. It’s his life. Everything from Luxembourg to London to — to Titanic. To Bucky. The one trapped under his mattress holds everything from their last few months in New York before coming to Europe, to Madrid, to Paris. It’s all — scenes, beauty. Things that intrigued Steve. Made him think, wonder, ponder. Appreciate. Realize. Things that shaped him. He can feel the paper underneath his hand, the charcoal beneath his fingers, the crick that gets in his neck from keeping his head down, or craning up at some building, monument, landscape. Can see the sights in front of him, the finished products in his book. All his drawings — they’re a part of him. And now that part will die, with everyone else on the ship.

He shudders hard, tears pouring out, and he can’t stop. He — he cries for his drawings, his life; cries for the people stuck on the ship, their families, friends; cries for Clint; cries for Sam; cries for Bucky; cries even for all those that make it to the lifeboats, whose lives will never be the same. He just cries, cries until he can’t feel Bucky’s hands against him anymore, can’t hear him whisper "Stevie, Steve," softly into his skin, can’t feel the discomfort of the clothes that adorn him, can’t hear the screams around him, can't see the explosion of the flares in the sky, until the tears freeze against his cheeks, eyelashes stuck together.

The water is nearing the Bridge Deck now, only a couple of minutes before it laps over, begins to truly take everyone down. The Ship of Dreams turning into some cruel nightmare you never wake up from. When these people’s eyes close, it will be forever.

"Jesus," someone behind him breathes. All their eyes are transfixed on the scene in front of them. There's no way they could tear their eyes away, even though no one wants to look, wants to see thousands of people fall and sink to their demises.

The few children on the boat are being consoled by their mothers, quiet whispers and strokes of the hand. No doubt they're turned away from the ship, but Steve doesn't turn around to look. Can't.

The water reaches the tip of the bow now, trickling its way on deck, rising rapidly now that it has something to push down. Shivers rip through Steve's body, his heart hammering in his chest, stomach twisting. Bucky slides his hand back into his, holding almost too tight, but somehow it's not tight enough. His hand clamped hard in his isn't enough to ground him, isn't enough to remind him of his own happiness, own sliver of luck as his eyes follow the flow of the water, watches as it begins to take down passengers. Ears ringing with the screams. He tries, though — shoves himself closer to Bucky, keeps his whole side pressed against him, tries to give himself this. But he feels selfish, having Bucky when these thousands of people have nothing, no one, at least not anymore.

Some lifeboats are still on the ship, surrounded by people and filling with water. Useless, now. One boat upturns its passengers that were almost to safety, the rush of the water pushing them out, depriving them of their chances.

Then there's a loud snap, and it startles everyone in their little boat, rocking it slightly. There's another sound, sharp as the last. Then a third and a fourth, followed by a deep rumbling, bellowing throughout the night sky. Steve watches in horror as the boiler begins to fall, free of its holds, free standing and unbalanced. Its descent is slow, but it doesn't give enough time for the poor souls in the water below to swim away. It crashes on top of them, loud and hard, smacking the water, smacking the bodies. Steve feels numb.

The stern seems to rise, as the bow goes down, people climbing their way to the top, some falling or losing their balance. Steve doesn't think he'll ever be able to get this image out of his head, will never be able to unsee all these bodies sliding down the ship, down to the icy water below.

"Shit," Bucky curses next to him, just before there's a crack. Crunch. "Shit."

Steve doesn't believe it, doesn't process the ship in front of him, splitting in half, a giant crack ripping through the middle of the ship. A new pathway to death. Splinters of the deck floor jutting out, the walls broken and torn, water gushing through the fissure. A chasm that takes the bow down completely, and —

"Oh, my Christ," their crewman exclaims, clutching the oar hard.

The stern does rise, keeps going up as the bow falls. People fall from the railings they gripped, splashing into the water below, falling into the space ripped through the ship, crashing onto pieces of _Titanic_ , a place that was supposed to be solace on the water, a home.

The propeller presents itself, water spilling off of it, as it ascends into the sky, the whole hull of the ship perpendicular to the ocean.

"We're too close," Bucky announces, voice strained. "It's gonna — hey!" He waves his hand at the crewman, waiting for him to crane his neck to Bucky. But he only dismisses him, snarling. Bucky straightens next to Steve, hand still wrapped tight. "When it goes down it's gonna pull us with it unless you back this boat up."

Steve starts, looking from Bucky to the ship, the ship grumbling, and beginning its descent, getting eaten up by the ocean. The _Titanic_ sinks.

"Did you not hear what I said? It's gonna suck us down! _Move_." He shoves at the officer then, with both hands, Steve's hand cold now.

The officer only glares at him. "Sit _down_ , before you rock us all out the boat!"

Bucky vibrates with anger, livid. He grabs the crewman by the lapels on his uniform, screaming in his face, startling the others on their boat. Including Steve. But Steve knows he's right. The ripples of the sinking bow nearly reach their boat, and Steve — he snatches the oar from the crewman as Bucky continues to yell. He tries to take the oar back from Steve but Bucky grinds his forearm into his neck, holding him down. Steve desperately swings the oar into the water, tries his best to paddle them backwards with only one oar, and from the middle of the boat.

A child wails behind him, and Steve looks up, just in time to see the last few people standing on the edge of the ship get sucked down. Something in his body shatters, collapses at the sight. Freezes him in place. Paddle in his hands a heavy weight.

Bucky isn’t beside him.

The aftereffects of the sinking, a giant gap in the night sky where there was once an ocean liner and her passengers, the screams of those trapped in the cold of the water, the splashes of their frantic pleas. It all creates a wave, a large enough disturbance in the calm sea, rocking into their boat, wobbling their tiny vessel of safety. People swim towards them, thinking they have a chance here. There’s barely enough room for Steve as it is. He swallows hard, tries not to think about that. But how can he, when it’s staring him right in the face?

Suddenly, the oar is ripped from his hands, the crewman frantically trying to paddle them farther away from the victims, still avoiding Bucky’s elbow. His hands move wildly, water splashing into the boat. "They’ll bring us down," he explains, eyes darting and chest rising far too quickly, as if they didn’t already know that. Couldn’t figure out why he was so desperate to flee. Though Steve suspects it might be an attempt to appease his own conscience, justify his actions.

Their boat sways violently the farther they go, the more manic the officer becomes.

"Hey, calm down, pal, you’re gonna flip us over," Bucky says, helping; a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Steve doesn’t believe it — doesn’t believe his eyes, when he sees an arm fly out, aggressively, knocking Bucky away. He doesn’t believe it when Bucky flops over the side, crashing into the dark sea, the right side of the boat careening after him, water dipping its way inside, almost taking them over completely. The crewman slides quickly to the left of the boat, attempting to balance. But all Steve can focus on is —

" _Bucky!_ " He practically dives across the boat, causing it to rock again, much to the dismay of his fellow passengers. "Bucky!" He can’t see him, can’t hear him, can’t — can’t let this happen. Can’t let the kid from New York who fights so hard to end like this. Can’t lose him. "Stop moving!" Steve yells at the officer, whose mind is gone, no sense but survival stuck in his head. And surviving means being away from those who won’t, those who will be lost at sea. "No, no, no," he cries, searching deliriously for Bucky’s head, arm, anything. But the water is too dark, the stars not enough light, the boat moving too fast. Too many screams.

Bucky would kill him if he jumped out of this boat to find him, he knows it. And, yet —

"Steve!"

His head almost snaps off, with how hard he whips it in the other direction. He feels the boat shift dramatically under him, hears the muddled exclaims of those around him, but his focus is only on the dark head of hair he sees popping out of the water. "Bucky!" And he’s — he’s floating backwards, towards the chaos, everything in the water working against him, working against them. Steve can feel the space between them, feel it turn into a rope that wraps around his heart, pulls tight until he can’t breathe, tugging him farther away. He — _no._

"No, Steve! Don’t!" Bucky yells, splashing in the water. "Stay in the boat. Stay. Please." His voice is raw, stripped by the ice, by the adrenaline, fear. Steve just wants him here. Here with him. He shouldn’t be alone. He’s had enough of that his whole life.

"You can’t stay there!" he shouts, feels the tears collecting at his lips. "Come back." Come back to me.

"Don’t worry, I’ll be f — I’ll  — just keep your ass in that boat. Keep my seat warm for me." Steve doesn’t like the tone in his voice — _knows_ it’s not — Bucky won’t. He can’t let him sit there, freeze there, drown — Steve shudders, something scratching his throat, bubbling out of his mouth. Guttural. After _everything_ , Bucky is just — gone.

"Bucky," he whispers, the cold of his tears stinging his face, scraping at the skin.

And then Bucky is screaming, shrieking. And then he’s gone. Someone else where he was, crying and afraid; lost. They use him as a floatation device, pushing down on his head to keep themselves afloat. Bucky emerges from the water briefly, only to swing wildly at the stranger, he can’t open his mouth to protest before water makes its way down his throat. Steve — Steve is paralyzed.

And then there are too many people — too much around him. Everything zooming while he sits still, eyes stuck on the spot where Bucky once was, where there’s now a swarm of those who fell peril to the _Titanic_ , fighting for warmth, for life. Steve is too far away to see anything, too disconnected, too — too _safe_. Alive. Nothing about anything feels right, feels real. But it is. Very real, very much in front of him. Thousands of lives compromised, ending. Bucky among them.

A hand finds its way to his shoulder. "I’m so sorry, dear." It’s an older woman, one who was in the boat long before them. Steve almost flinches at her touch, shakes with devastation. He curls into himself, nails digging into his sides, holding him together. He keeps his eyes forward, but they lose their intensity, focus. He just stares ahead, unblinking, the scene playing out in front of him. But his vision is blank, just empty space, where Bucky once was. Empty space next to him in the boat, where Bucky once was. Empty space in his head, where Bucky once was. Beside him. Hand in his. He’s gone.

Steve misses every part of him, every feel. Aches for it, mind recalling every pressure of Bucky’s fingertips against his skin, every touch of his lips, every beat of his heart; the way his hands travelled Steve’s body just last night, the way his chest rose and fell in a smooth rhythm, soft breaths escaping, the ease of a smile on his face. Steve will never feel that again, hear that again, see that again.

He sits there, just like that, empty and numb. Can barely sense the movements of those in the boat around him, the blurred silence that increases throughout the dark and early morning. A boat splits the quiet crowd in front of him, searching through the bodies. Steve doesn’t bother to pay attention — get his hopes up. He _can’t_. He’s been let down too many times. Knows his own luck, won’t push it. So he continues to sit. Waiting. The sun rises eventually, and he still sits, waiting. He doesn’t feel cold anymore, doesn’t feel anything. He thinks a coat has been placed around his shoulders, but he doesn’t care. It’s not Bucky’s arms.

~~

Sam finds him first, shakes his shoulder and holds him tight. Steve wraps his arms around him, buries his face in his neck. Still half-empty.

 

**BROOKLYN**

Their apartment is dusty, having been empty for months. The landlord didn’t demand rent as he usually does when they’re in his sights, let them drag themselves up the stairs, saying they’ve been through enough.

For the first few days, Steve wakes in the night, sweating, sticking to his lone sheet. Or wakes to the rising sun, cheeks streaked with tears, eyes tender and puffy. Throat raw. Sam screams some nights, cries in his sleep, clutches his pillow as if it were someone to save, someone who could be saved. After the third day they share a bed, hoping to appease the pain, the torture, the sorrow. It doesn’t work. By the fourth day, Steve gives up on sleep altogether. Every time he blinks it’s a flash of sky blue eyes, the stars dotted there, endless constellations knitting together to create a work of art; or he sees the flashing lights of a ship, a chasm dividing it; or sees a massive pile of bodies, bobbing lifeless in the water. How could he ever sleep, sleep peacefully, when he can’t even live that way?

He checks the paper everyday, searching. Maybe, just _maybe_. His eyes scan over the published lists, ones of the so far documented saved, deceased. He looks at a list of First Class Survivors, exhales when he sees Natasha’s name. Bucky would be relieved. Steve chews on one fist, the other wrapped around the edge of the _Times_. He doesn’t see Bucky’s name. He knows it’s a long shot — but what good is he if he doesn’t _try_? If he just gives up — it would be an injustice, a disservice to Bucky Barnes. He’s not someone you forget, not someone you let go so easily. If he forgets him, was he even there? Did any of the time Steve spent with him matter, if Steve doesn’t look for closure, for him? He —

— cries.

Sam manages to insert himself back into this life, their old ways of New York, soon enough. It’s been a week. He makes Steve eggs in the morning, only for them to be completely ignored or pushed around the plate. Steve cries then, too. Cries when Sam goes out looking for jobs, cries when he’s left to himself in the apartment, to find the old sketchbooks, every page filled. He finds the colored pencils, and nearly snaps them all in half. Sam finds him sitting on the floor, tearing at his pants with the pencils scattered around him, sobbing. He sobs into Sam’s chest when he sets himself next to him, silent as always, understanding. Steve knows Sam is hurting, and wishes he could be there for him like Sam is for him, but. Whenever he thinks of Clint, he thinks of Bucky. Whenever he wants to ease Sam out of a bout of terror in the night, his hand hovers, frozen. Like the ocean that night. An ocean that took Clint, took Bucky. Took thousands. Steve is not strong enough to be the person Sam is. Sam tries, Sam lives past Clint, finds a way to keep his friend there as he moves on. As he tries to stop the nightmares. He’s coping, Steve can see. But nowhere near complete.

The lists reach over three hundred marked as gone, lost to the flounder of the Titanic. The day he reads it, sees _James Buchanan Barnes_ on that list, is the day he breaks. Into millions of pieces, all of which spell out Bucky when put back together, which will never be. They’ll always be shards, shards of Steve that scrape against his insides, rip him apart and tear at his heart. He only got to spend three days with Bucky Barnes before he was taken away from him. At least, Steve thinks, Bucky doesn’t have to suffer in an unhappy life anymore.

He roams the space in their apartment, mindless, empty. His mind travels back to the spacious suite Bucky lived in, the intricacies of the moldings that mimicked the designs Steve’s fingers would trace on his skin. Thinks about the blue of the sea they sailed on, how it matched the color of his eyes, the way he would stare at Steve in a way that made his worries fade, made him feel like — like everything. Anything. Whole. He thinks about the stars in the sky, the clear and crisp night illuminated by Bucky’s smile. The stars Steve would see in his eyes.

He clamps his teeth down on his fist and falls onto the couch, stares at the ground until Sam comes home.

On Saturday, Sam leaves for work at the post office with a promise to make Steve dinner, something to distract him — though Steve knows it’s bound to be the same potatoes and beef they’ve been eating. Steve doesn’t say anything, lets Sam cup the back of his head on his way out. It’s better for Sam if he thinks he’s helping Steve, even if Sam knows Steve well enough to know that his happiness isn’t returning anytime soon. Sam would chalk it up to his stubbornness, but Steve just — Steve is too devastated to think about how that’s mostly true. Too devastated to do much of anything, really. Which — he _knows_ he’ll move on, get back into the swing of things, but he’s not sure when that day will come. It could be years from now, or weeks, or days. But Steve doesn’t think about that, can’t think about that. He’s not past it in the slightest, and nowhere near ready. All Steve can think about right now is the feel of Bucky’s hand laced with his, the pressure of his lips against his, the cold sting of midnight wind, the sharp stab of the frozen sea. The numb.

His chest starts heaving without warning, throat tightening. He gasps for air, clutches at the bed sheet, head aching. Heart aching. Chest aching. He swallows hard, trying to gulp in the oxygen that won’t settle in his body. He feels weak, helpless. Hopeless. He lets his head fall between his knees and begins to sob uncontrollably, lack of air constricting. He may not be at sea, but the _Titanic_ will have claimed another life, he thinks. It’s already consumed him, every part of his mind, body, and soul. The cold steel plunging into the ocean and the warm bodies that followed. A hand in his. Screams. An empty seat on a boat. Sam. Clint. Bucky. It all swims around inside him, tightening his chest, keeping him awake at night. There is no calm; the storm of the sea never faded. Continues to whip around inside Steve with an endless rage.

There is no air, the stuffy apartment closing in on him, pushing him down. His head begins to feel fuzzy, and he can feel his heart beating rapidly, so why is it he can’t breathe?

His hands clench, eyes stuck on the wooden flooring, one plank covered in marks. He was there just days ago, ready to throw away everything he loved as if it could somehow appease the deaths of the _Titanic_ and her passengers; as if some broken colored pencils could bring everything back. He never got to show Bucky, never got to draw him with the supplies his beauty deserved. Charcoal is not an adequate medium for Bucky Barnes. His hands, body, smile. The line of his jaw, curve of his mouth, slant of his nose, arch in his brow. The chestnut hair atop his head, the bend in his neck when he would laugh. His laugh. The way his feet never actually stayed together, or still, for that matter. The jump in his step, the sway of his hips. His hipbones, collarbones, shoulder blades. All places touched by Steve in one way or another. He — he can breathe, he realizes. The weight in his chest has dissipated, his throat open, heartbeat steady. He feels tears grace his cheeks, but the dread inside him is gone, replaced with Bucky Barnes’ smile. Laugh. Heart.

His eyes drift back to that floorboard, everything in him settling, if just for a moment. Tears still stream down his face, as he crawls over, but that’s okay. There are worse things. These tears are for Bucky, and the _Titanic_ , and Sam, and Clint, and the survivors. So are his colored pencils. So are the pages of his sketchbooks. So is he.

He draws. Draws everything he can remember. The front of the ship. The view of the sky from his porthole. Sam laughing with Clint. Clint sitting on a bench. Every Deck of the ship he visited. Starboard side of the ship from the water. Bucky’s hands. His eyes. Him lying on his stomach next to Steve, curve of his back peeking from under the covers. Natasha, and her kind smile. A lifeboat. Passengers everywhere. Water broken apart with debris and bodies. The _Carpathia_. The Statue of Liberty. New York. His mom. The graveyard. His old room. Old home. Places he wanted to share with Bucky: the fruit stand on the corner, the diner down the street, the blocks of architecture, here. Home. He draws until his pencils are nubs, nothing left to hold of them. Draws until he can breathe peacefully. The floor is littered with them.

"Shit." Steve looks up to see Sam throwing his jacket on the table. "Steve." His eyes scan the room around him, where Steve is in the center of it all, colors splayed on his skin, etches on the pages surrounding him. He approaches Steve but doesn’t continue speaking, although his mouth does open and close a few times. He smiles small at the drawings of him, his lips go tight when he looks at Bucky, and he swallows hard when his eyes fall upon Clint. He blinks, looking at everything else, the wreck they survived, the memorialization of those that didn’t. He looks back at Steve, eyes melancholy, face soft, and rests his hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing hard. "Get cleaned up. I’m making dinner, remember?"

Steve nods, reaching up to grab his hand for a moment before dropping it. He begins to collect his dead pencils and scattered drawings as Sam heads into the kitchen and rummages around. Steve’s hand cramps as he moves, an ache in his back forming along with a crick in his neck, being crouched over the ground for the majority of the day taking its toll. He rises and stretches, leaving his materials where they lay in favor for a bath. He’ll probably use up all the hot water — which doesn’t take much, honestly — but he thinks Sam won’t mind. Or, hopes, at least. Sam understands him more than anyone, especially now, after what they’ve been through. Sam knows Steve needs his time, his space, his own release. He hasn’t forced anything on Steve, hasn’t made him leave the apartment or find work because he knows Steve isn’t ready. He feels guilty for that, sitting here on the floor and staring out the window while Sam works his ass off at two jobs right now. At least before Steve was doing _something_ to contribute. Now, he — well now he feels useless. Empty. Though the cracks are beginning to heal. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep through the night.

He washes for longer than needed, or than he anticipated, really. Scrubs his skin harder than needed, leaving it pink and raw under the rag. When he emerges back into the living space, Sam is setting plates on the counter — pancakes and eggs and sausage, steam rising. Steve grins at him — he realizes it’s the first time he’s done that in a week. He thinks he’ll be okay, with Sam here. Sam is — Sam is his best friend. He goes up to him and throws his arms around Sam’s shoulders tight, and feels him startle under Steve’s weight. But his arms quickly slide around Steve’s middle, reciprocating the hold. Normally, Sam would crack a joke and they would separate, but not today. Not this time. And that’s okay. Steve doesn’t expect things to revert to the way they were, especially not so quickly, but he also doesn’t expect everything to drastically change. He’s still Steve, and Sam is still Sam, no matter where they’ve been or what they’ve done or what’s happened to them, and he knows they’ll adapt. They always do. They wouldn’t have made it this far if they couldn’t.

Soon they do break apart, and Steve pretends not to notice the glistening to Sam’s eyes. Steve can’t even be sure his eyes aren't doing the same, to be honest. So he ducks his head and tends to his pancakes, right next to Sam. And they talk. Easily. Naturally. Throughout the whole meal, and Steve feels something bubbling deep in his chest, something threatening to spill over. Something that reminds him of home. Here. A few months ago. But it's new, too. Something changed. Tighter. Stronger. Indelible.

And it's fine. It's okay. It's a start. And when Sam goes to bed Steve doesn't feel such a gaping hole in his chest, feels it stitching itself together, one by one. Slowly. And he does manage to sleep through the night, but that doesn't make his mind drift anywhere other than where it's been since they stepped on that pier. His eyes flutter shut to the image of another pair, a pair just as blue, stars twinkling there; strong and peaceful. Happy.

He still wakes up with tears around his eyes, though.

And alone, as it turns out. Sam is already gone for work at the grocers, and the sun is high in the sky. He wipes the sleep and wetness from his eyes and stretches, having slept longer than he intended, or has in a while. He didn't realize how weary he actually was. A week of stress on his shoulders, the lives of thousands who no longer breathe on his mind, the affection for blue eyes that are forever closed in his heart. The weight and pain of it all has lessened, though, and he finds it easier to breathe.

He washes his face and prepares himself some eggs and toast, not particularly motivated for the day. He ran through his colored pencil supply yesterday, not to mention the number of pages of paper he managed to draw on, multiple times for some. He could go out and see if he could scrounge up enough coins for more supplies, since everything else of his was left on the —

There’s a knock on the door, and Steve looks up. With a sigh he assumes it’s the landlord, who probably deemed one week enough to process the horrible tragedy they were in and turn up with rent money. Honestly, Steve was hoping he’d let them slide, but he doesn’t appear to be that lucky. He has no idea how in the world they will ever be able to produce enough money, even with Sam’s two jobs. Steve doesn’t have the resources to draw for profit right now, nor does he have the qualifications for an actual job. He should probably work on fixing that, but right now his heart is too heavy and mind too clouded. There’s another knock, and Steve debates not answering, but he’s smart enough to know that won’t stop him from finding them and demanding money at any chance he gets. He might as well.

Running a hand through his hair, he rises and tries to deepen the lines that are already etched across his worry worn face, tries to bring tears. He should feel some inner turmoil over that, but right now, he would just like some solitude — that is, solitude that doesn’t involve his heart being slowly and tortuously wrenched away from his body with every passing minute. There’s a semblance of relief now. His heart feels calm.

He opens the door and that feeling immediately goes away.

His knees buckle under him and his heart just — _stops_. Shrivels tight and chokes his windpipes, and he’s clutching on the door for dear life because — because — he has to be dreaming. This has to be some cruel joke of his mind; he must have finally snapped under the pain. Because there’s absolutely _no way_ Bucky is standing there. There is no way this is real. No way Steve is actually this lucky. Because — it’s — he’s not — _no_. And Bucky is smiling that blinding smile of his, and Steve honestly feels like he's hallucinating, a headache beginning to pound the back of his head. Everything — hurts. He’s overwhelmed. He’s — he’s not breathing.

"Stevie," Bucky exhales, falling into the doorway. He closes the door and his hands find Steve’s shoulders, his breath catching upon the contact. Steve chokes, the pressure of Bucky’s hands against him very real, and very familiar. It’s — he’s —

He drops, clutching onto Bucky with everything he has. Bucky holds him up, grip tight on his shirt. Steve feels as his nails dig into his back and he relishes the touch. A touch he thought he’d lost forever. He shudders, a sob escaping his throat, swallowed by Bucky’s shoulder. He wraps his arms tight around Bucky, still trying to control his heartbeats, still trying to process. But he can’t. Can’t do anything but cry. Hold. His chest is tight, mind swimming with a thousand emotions he can’t even begin to sift through. And he just cries. Cries and cries into Bucky’s neck, choking on his own tears, breathing in Bucky’s scent. _Bucky_.

"We agreed it was both of us or none of us, Rogers," Bucky whispers into his ear and Steve crumbles again. Loses it. He grips Bucky’s jacket, presses himself further against him. Continues to cry into his sleeve.

"I thought —"

"I know, I know. I’m sorry," Bucky interrupts, voice strained. His hand runs through Steve’s hair, cupping his head and keeping him close. "I’m so sorry, Steve."

Steve claws at his back and squeezes his eyes tighter, out of tears but not ready to stop crying. "I  — I saw —" he hiccups, rubbing his nose against Bucky’s jacket. "Your name, in the paper — it was — you di—" And he can’t bring himself to finish that thought, doesn’t — "Bucky," he sighs, and presses his lips to his skin like he did just last week. Last week when all that was on the horizon was the ocean; hope.

Bucky turns his head, traces Steve’s ear with his mouth, peppering his skin. "I told 'em my name was Bucky Barnes, not James. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I had to. I’m sorry, Steve. I — it took me so long to find you and I —"

Steve grabs his head and pulls their mouths together, kissing him deeply. He couldn’t — Bucky is _here_. _Alive_. He slots their lips together and keeps his hands around his cheeks, melting into him. Everything in him fading away as Bucky kisses him back, keeps his hands on him somehow. Someway. Steve — _God,_ he can’t let go. Ever. But then Bucky sobs, body racking against Steve, head falling to his chest. Steve holds him tight, kissing every part of him that he can.

"I’m sorry I left you," Bucky says, breath hitching. And Steve —

"You didn’t — Bucky, if anything I’m sorry — I should’ve gone after you — I could’ve —"

"Steve, if you had gotten out of that boat I would’ve drowned you myself," Bucky promises, shaking his forehead against Steve’s chest. Steve — he laughs. Bubbles with it, body vibrating as he presses his lips to the top of Bucky’s head.

"I know you would have." He kisses Bucky again, tipping his head up. He wipes the tears from under his eyes, catches them on his thumb. Runs his sleeve under his nose, and Bucky kisses his wrist. Steve stares at him, still trying to comprehend. He watched Bucky go under, watched him disappear from before his eyes — he swallows. "So, you —" he coughs, takes a deep breath. "You made it. To the _Carpathia_. But you — you were in the water —"

Bucky tightens in his arms and he stops. Steve looks him over, waiting. "I — I got on last, a boat — they came back for me — us. It was — Steve, it was so cold. The woman next to me, she didn’t make — she was _blue_ , Stevie. I had never seen anything —"

"It’s okay. You’re okay, we’re okay," Steve says, pulling Bucky’s head into his frame.

"Are we?" Bucky whispers and Steve traces the vertebrae on his neck. He doesn’t really believe that they are; how can anyone be after something like that? How can anyone walk away from a wreck completely unscathed?

He kisses at Bucky’s hairline. "We will be," he says. Because they have to. They have to move on. They have to get better. It’s — it will be okay. Easier. With Bucky here. With Sam here. And Steve can —

"Holy shit," Bucky exclaims, pulling away from Steve. Steve follows him with his eyes, watching as Bucky moves towards the pile of drawings he left there yesterday. Some are still scattered on the floor, but the giant stack of colored pages is unmistakable. "Steve…" Bucky sits himself on the floor and sifts through the papers. One of the ship was the first, followed by an array of passengers and Sam and Bucky, and Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face as he looks through his work. Watches in awe, honestly. He can’t believe — _how_. Just when he thought he’d lost it all, just when he began to heal — breathe — here enters Bucky. Knocks his breath away again. And he’s here, on Steve’s apartment floor, just like Steve wanted, just like he hoped. He’s here with Steve, and he — they survived. He watches Bucky’s throat tighten when he stumbles across the few drawings of the sinking, and he drops to his knees next to him. The stitches tug and tighten at his heart, leaving him feeling completely dumbfounded. The agony of the past week lessening, almost disappearing when Bucky leans back against him. All the tears he felt constantly pricking the back of his eyes dissipating, the headache forming abandoning him. He’s somber still, and is not entirely sure that feeling will ever go away — the dreams, the screams. But he has Bucky. A beacon, a light to break through the dark.

"How did you even find me?" Steve asks, pressing kisses to his nape.

Bucky chuckles lightly. "Took me long enough, yeah? After I finally got processed at Ellis — by the way, had to make up some shit about my heritage — I stuck around for a bit thinkin’ maybe I’d run into you or Sam somehow. But everyone from _Titanic_ was out. So I got me a ferry. And all I had to go on was fucking Brooklyn, and then I remembered you kept talkin’ about Montague Street so I walked until I found that. But after Battery Park I got turned around, ended up in East Village. Nice lady let me stay there for a while, she wouldn’t let me leave ’til she was sure I was well fed and rested." He smiles soft at that, pushing farther against Steve’s chest before continuing. Steve slides his arms around his middle. "Yeah, and I finally got to Brooklyn and I just kept looking for Montague, askin’ around and shit — turns out I made a great big circle. Then I kept asking people if they knew a Steve or a Sam from around here, 'course, you hadn’t lived here for a while so no one could really help me out, but I just looked at every apartment building I passed. Then this guy told me you lived here, third floor, and —" He gestures wide with his arms, as if to say, "Here I am."

Steve leans in and kisses him soft, fluttering his eyelashes against Bucky’s cheeks. "I can’t believe you — you did all that, it’s been a week!"

"I told you I wasn’t leavin’ you behind, didn’t I?" Bucky answers simply, nosing Steve’s face. Steve shakes his head, disbelief hovering between them. He places his lips against Bucky’s nose, cheeks, eyes, lips. Kisses him like he hasn’t in a week, like he’s wanted to. Bucky turns, legs tangled with Steve’s body as he rests in his lap, lips never leaving Steve’s.

And Steve doesn’t need to say it, but he does. Because if there’s one thing he wants to make sure Bucky Barnes hears it’s, "I love you, Buck." He didn’t say it before, before he thought he’d lost him, and he knew Bucky knew it, felt it, too, but. He wants to trace it all over his skin, whisper it into the lines of his heart, kiss it into his mouth forever. So he _knows_. So he can leave everything else behind, so he can know that he as Bucky Barnes is loved, wholeheartedly, completely. James won’t take that away from him anymore.

Bucky sighs into his mouth, nodding fervently, clutching at Steve’s shoulders. "I love you, too." He slips his lips back between Steve’s, pulling him in. "Ya punk."

And Steve laughs, shoves Bucky to the floor. "Jerk."

"Maybe," Bucky shrugs, reaching for Steve’s collar, "but you’re stuck with me," he grins. He yanks Steve down, bringing their mouths together again, a hand tangled in his hair, the other tracing his collarbones. Steve stays wrapped around him, laughing between each kiss; happy.

~~

And it goes.

Sam produces the same general reaction to Bucky’s arrival when he comes home, but he processes it much faster than Steve did. Steve can still see the frown lines on his face, the memory of a lost friend sitting in them. Sees the same lines in Bucky’s features, saddening, and Steve’s no fool to think he isn’t still carrying anything. But. It’s better.

He wakes up in Bucky’s arms, Sam in the next room. Goes to work at the diner down the street, sells his art on the side just like before. Bucky gets that job at the Navy Yard, and Sam stays at the post office, dropping his other jobs. Steve comes home to Bucky’s lips and Sam’s awful jokes. And a meal on the table. And a peaceful beat to his heart. It’s easier to make rent, now, easier to have a variety of foods, easier to buy art supplies. Everything is easier. Living isn’t a challenge anymore, not a luxury he can barely manage to afford. Something he never takes for granted, now more than ever.

And on Fourth of July they celebrate more than Steve’s birthday, more than their home. They toast all those whose lives were lost, toast Clint. They toast to their own future, tapping cups of cheap beer against one another’s, eyes shining with the fireworks outside. And that night, Bucky takes Steve to bed, melts into him with all the promises of tomorrow and memories of yesterday; all the love spread between them splayed out on the sheets; the stars clear and bright outside, clear and bright in Bucky’s eyes. Strong. Steve curls his body with his, eyes closing peacefully as Bucky wraps him in his arms, despite the humid summer air around them. And it’s easier to fall asleep, too. With his cheek pressed against Bucky’s chest, Steve stays. Asleep. Alive. Happy.

**Author's Note:**

> i struggled with how to end this for a long, long time, so i'm sorry if you were expecting a different ending/don't necessarily like what i did but i just couldn't make it completely sad they've already been through enough, though we all know they would've been able to handle it. and if you squint, it's basically canon: steve thinks he's lost bucky, ice, bucky returns to him, yay. i almost did an alternate ending, so if enough people would like that i'd be happy to write it :)
> 
> ALSO I REALLY LOVE CLINT IM SORRY
> 
> and, thanks to this fic, anal sex 1900s now will forever show up in my search bar. so thx. ((also in case it was confusing, KY Jelly was like, the first kind of lube, and that's what they used))
> 
> also apparently colored pencils weren't actually invented in the time parameters that would allow this steve to use them, but i think they were first introduced in europe?? but i looked it up before i wrote it and it said they were available in the US around the 1910s but when i checked later it said different so who knows. but im pretty positive they were and that they were mostly waxy so i just went with that. everything else is basically historically accurate though. even the probability of two closeted homosexuals of different social classes during early 20th century america meeting in the middle of the atlantic both on their way back to NYC and falling in love in like two days with barely any complications. yeah.
> 
> ALSO I WOULD LIKE TO CALL OUT JAMES CAMERON FOR COMPLETELY SKIPPING OVER SATURDAY APRIL 13TH IN THE MOVIE. IT DOES NOT EXIST IN THAT CANON AND FUCKED ME OVER SO THANKS FOR THAT.
> 
> the amount of research i did on gay brooklyn and just everything lgbt in that time period was honestly astounding but im glad i did tbh. also found a post that tells you that both comic and mcu canon place steve in a gay neighborhood :)) so that was very nice to be able to include :)) here is said [post](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html)
> 
> i learned a lot about the titanic and literally anything and everything involving it and it's a really awful set of circumstances but also really really interesting so if anyone wants to learn more i advise you, please do. unless you value your happiness and are at peace with the fact than you cannot time travel and singlehandedly prevent such a tragedy, then don't.


End file.
